WeissKreuz Fading Light
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: A dark take on the flowershop boys and their adversaries. No cutie Omi but one that smokes and uses a gun. Are Weiss and Schwarz really so different from one another? They're all in here: Yohji, Aya, Ken, Omi, Crawford, Schuldig, Farfarello, Nagi.
1. Chapter 1 Out

**By way of a Prologue**

This applies to all chapters of Fading Light, to avoid having to repeat this at the beginning of each new one.  
When uploading documents, it appears that rather frequently, spaces are running together. Tried to correct this, without success. Has anyone else had this problem, and knows how to correct it?

**Fandom:** Weiss Kreuz  
**Rating:** M/NC-15  
**Spoilers**: Not that I'm aware of. Later perhaps.

**Summary: **The Weiss boys at war with one another, their conscience, the constraints of a reality they hate... And there is more to the Schwarz men than meets the eye. Major ANGST, some lime. Set before the great cataclysm of the tower. I have played fast and loose with some character ages simply because it seemed to make more sense to have a grown-up Yohji and Aya, with Crawford to match. And for the record, I like them all, but I think, all empathy aside, that assassins are killers for money, and no shining heroes. I also tried to bring back the supernatural aura of the Schwarz men into something that has more to do with psychopathology than magic. To me, they're human, and I found it challenging to keep them this way instead of using powers and talents as an easy explanation for what happens to them.

**Related stories:  
**Harigane – Yohji about the Weiss boys on the job  
Special Gifts – after Aya's melt-down, when Yohji refers to the birthday gift he has in mind for Aya  
Winding Down – snapshot stories that run parallel with 'Fading Light', fromthe early days of Weiss (I Transformation), through the time when Aya loses his old self (II Trapped), until after the cataclysm of the tower and the break-up of Weiss (III All Over, IV Full Circle), to the recovery, of sorts, of Weiss and Schwarz (V To Live Forever).

**xxx**

End of rant. I have no beta yet, so please forgive me for slip-ups and feel free to correct any mistakes – I appreciate any feedback and usually take the bad with the good as long as it is constructive.

Hope you have fun – it is a dark take on the Weiss boys and perhaps an odd one on the men of Schwarz.

Cheers  
LoveyouHateyou

**xxx**

**FADING LIGHT**

**Out – Yohji and Manx**

Manx tapped a cigarette out of her packet and lit it without taking her eyes off Yohji who sat opposite her at the small table in the street cafe. Of course she had claimed the place that allowed her to oversee the entire place, with a dozen similar tables crammed into a living-room sized space and a shop window to the street.

She made no effort to pretend. Her gaze kept routinely scanning cafe, street and Yohji himself, logging details into her impressive memory that she might find useful later. She made great use of details, Yohji recalled with bitterness, she was good at recruiting, picking out any weakness in her targets with unfailing cleverness. Astute, sharp, ruthless, with a gleeful taste for power and manipulation, Manx was a formidable handler. "You are in no position to refuse this mission, Balinese," she said through a mouthful of smoke, her eyes briefly touching his. He tried a winning grin, with an edge of sultriness, and her mouth twitched with a hint of disdain. "And don't try to pull your charm on me. It's not working."

With a sigh, he dropped his attempt at pretending, took his mug of coffee and began to stir the dark brew. A nervous little gesture, he knew it betrayed his uneasy state of mind to her, and he could not care less. She had his file anyway. "I want out," he said, fixing his glance on her lips. She had pretty lips, pink and moist, but right now, they were set in a rigid line. Manx was no woman, Yohji concluded, but some kind of monster, sent to haunt him. Them all.

"You cannot have 'out'," she hissed, matter of factly, but a streak of satisfaction stained the flat tone. "You belong to Kritiker."

"I belong to myself," he snapped.

"You don't believe that, do you?" A long stream of smoke right into his face. She was getting him annoyed, and she enjoyed this game. She took pleasure in inflicting pain on him. Her way of avenging what he had done to Neu? What a strange idea. "My dear Kudo." Her voice dripping mockery. "What's so good about you, hm? You killed the woman who loved you, shredding her throat with your damn wire no less. You're a whore. Your redhead is an autistic maniac, a psychopath, goodness, I've never met anyone so cracked up. Know what, Bali? One day, he'll self-destruct, and that's why he's in with us. A confused, crossdressing, walking time bomb. And our dear Siberian? A failed soccer player, all brute force and a vile temper, too short to reign himself in? Last but not least, this hacking little fuckhead who's had his first killing under his belt at hardly twelve. Oh, and it does help that you're all fucking one another. No, you're not nice people, and neither am I."

Yohji stared at her. He had not realised. He had allowed himself to slip up yet again, by underestimating her. She sure knew how to hit low, and the worst thing about this was that she had scraped right over an old sore. Yes, she knew that too by the looks of it for now she gave him a cold smile. "So don't try that charm thing on me, I know you and I'll match you any time."

"Wonder what's on your file then, Manx," he muttered hoarsely.

"You'll never know, love, but be assured it looks a lot more suave than yours." She let her smile broaden. "Normal would be the word, I think."

"Good to know you're at ease with yourself," he quipped to hide the pain – she had stabbed deeper than he cared for.

He did not miss the flash of darkness in her eyes. The flicker of a moment, the fraction of a heartbeat, and surprised he realised that he had just briefly unhinged her, before her mask snapped firmly back into place. "I've sent the mission brief down the web. Tell that boytoy of yours to track it, he'll know what to do. The keyword is RosesInIce."

She got up and tossed a few coins onto the table. "I expect you to report back by the end of the week."

He watched her stalk off, her tall, slim frame encased in black jeans and a dark turtleneck sweater, her hair bouncing over her back in a lush ponytail. She was pretty, too, and she knew this as well. But hell would freeze over before she would allow anyone to see into her, least of all him – Manx meant strictly business, they all had learned that the hard way.

Yohji bit his lip. For Aya's sake, for his own, he had hoped to crack her up just a little, but he had never been more sure than now that he had lost a round.

**xxx**

What a slut, Aya thought as his glance scraped over Yohji who slouched in the window, one leg drawn up against his chest, his arms wrapped around, chin on knee. He was smoking and staring out onto the back street. For hours, he had not said a word but sat there, eyes heavy lidded, mouth slack, the reek of pot clinging to him and filling the room with its cloying sweetness. He would be stoned by now.

Omi was hunting the mission details on the web, careful to erase any tags and tracers. Piece by excruciating piece, the picture emerged: deadline for report, safe house following completion, contingency plan, location... Taking out a drug baron to serve justice did not seem such a bad thing.

Had they been asked to deliver the guy to the police, it would have been a good thing indeed. But they were paid to kill him and to erase any evidence they could get hold of.

So it was murder.

Aya did not feel all that bothered by this. A job like any other? Perhaps not, but he preferred to see himself as a purge of evil. It sounded nicer than hitman, killer, murderer. And it paid well. Kritiker had his sister, fine. Whether she would ever wake up from her coma, he had no idea. He did his job, for her comfort as much as for his own, for this had become a way of life. To kill without punishment, to take what he liked, to drink in the rush of power when blood flooded over his hands. Sometimes it sent him so high he felt dizzy. Manx was not entirely right: he could have walked away, because his sister was as good as dead to the world. But where would he go, what else was like this, and why should he? He felt rather... comfortable. And Yohji was a wimp.

A good shag, though. Aya bit his lip. Having Yohji squirm beneath him was second best to taking a life. Yohji knew how to tease him out of his mind, how to coax him into a Nirvana full of blasting heat and blazing stars, body and mind bursting with lust and greed until they were slaked, sated, floating in oblivion for a short while.

A smirk tugged at his mouth. Omi might know too much for his age, but he was too clumsy, and Ken too plain. Yohji had perfected sex to an artform. Well, he practised enough.

Slut.

**xxx**

Yohji had given up watching Aya. The soft sliding of whetstone over steel told him enough: the redhead was busy glaring at him while long, white hands moved evenly to grind the katana to razor sharpness. Aya sat crosslegged on the tatami, by the door, his back against the wall. His usual place, suitable to trip up any unwelcome guest and slip away in a flash. Aya knew his trade. Unlike Yohji, Aya had come to like what he was doing.

They had argued about this, and now they were on the rocks with one another yet again. Same thing when Yohji, for once, had wanted to reverse their game in bed – Aya had let rip, and quite virtually beaten him into submission. Sure, Yohji had been the one to show him, and sometimes Aya invited him to take, but this time, Yohji had tried to trigger the role reversal, and had his hide to show for it. Aya would not have it. Had tied his hands behind his back and taken Yohji dry, hard, with the same icy glitter in his eyes that he wore when on mission.

Yohji had been shocked, every instinct screaming down his nerves to hide his fear, to bear it, to appear stoic, but he had torn and bitten his lips bloody in the process, until Aya was done, let off and tossed him a knife, sure that Yohji would be unable to crawl after Aya to kill him, sure of himself, sure of having shown Yohji who was boss.

Perhaps Manx was right. Not a nice thought.

Still, he did not want to meet the business end of Aya's katana, he had seen what it could do, he had seen Aya's face and the expression of lust in his eyes when his mission face dropped and they relaxed after a job. Yohji liked life too much to provoke Aya into seeing him as a target.

He held no doubt that he was Yohji now, and someone else when working. He had always wanted to believe that Abyssinian and Aya were different people. Now things did not seem so clear-cut anymore.

**xxx**


	2. Chapter 2 Attempt at Seduction

**Attempt at Seduction – Omi and Yohji**

"C'mon, Yo-kun," Omi begged, impatiently tugging at Yohji's sweater.

"No." Yohji hid behind his book, pushing his glasses firmly into place. Green glasses that concealed his eyes just fine from the chibi. Omi had not considered it beyond himself to try and bribe Yohji with a mug of coffee and a pack of his favourite tobacco. Now he was on his knees by the couch, hugging Yohji's legs and digging his sharp little chin into the older man's denim-clad thigh.

"Someone's gotta do it," Omi sulked, fidgeting and grinding his chin into hardening muscle. It hurt, but when Yohji tried to twitch away, the chibi clasped his legs with surprising strength. "Yotan, if you don't fuck me tonight, I'm gonna go out and pick some sucker from the street, and then I'll get bloody paid for it as well."

With an exasperated gasp, Yohji dropped the book and grabbed a handful of Omi's hair, dragging him up to sit on the couch by his side. "No. I'm not gonna fuck you, and you're not going soliciting 'cos bloody's just how you might come back if at all."

"But-"

"But my ass. If – nah, when – Fuji finds out, he'll skewer us both."

"You clucking over me?" A small, sly smile began to play on Omi's lips, his eyes narrowed a little, and he slanted a strange glance at Yohji from beneath long lashes. "Skewer us, huh?" He rolled the words on his tongue, as though to savour them, then licked his lips and grinned. "You afraid? Man, Yohji, I'd never thought... there's more to you two than this pants-down thing, right?"

"You little slut," Yohji grumbled, letting go of him and ruffling his hair in a warily amused way. The chibi really was way beyond his years. Innocence spoiled beyond redemption, rotten to the core. Like all of them but so painfully young. How did he hide it in school? Given, at nineteen, he should have been at university – Yohji did not have the slightest doubt Omi was bright enough for it – but their lives were not normal, and the frequent uprooting and working on bloody missions at night did not help. Omi was lucky to look younger than his years, that he went to sink schools where no one bothered to ask unwelcome questions and did his cramming in places probably even worse than that, but still... how did he manage to learn anything at all like that? Yet he was the smartest brain in their team. Yohji suppressed a sigh. Omi's future could have held so many promises... what a waste. They were all wasted. Aya, Ken, Omi, him.

"Slut, huh? You tell me." Omi sank back, the mischief in his eyes giving way to sullen resignation, mingling with a good measure of self-loathing. "Fine then. I'll do it myself. It's boring. What about that rubber doll you promised me?"

Yohji rolled his eyes. "That was a joke." And in a moment of rare madness, he added, "Go ask Ken. I think he really likes you." Don't waste it, he meant to say and did not dare when he met Omi's eyes again, eyes too old, too cold, too wary for such a young face. The boy did not belong here, Yohji thought with a vague dragging pain in his chest, but Kritiker would not let him go. No one would walk from Kritiker, or Eszet, or any of this mess. They were all broken, snagged, ensnared and had given themselves over. Quite readily by now. Aya was corrupted into liking to kill, Ken just did as he was told because Omi was here, Omi had no hope of ever feeling clean again and carried on because his alternative was lifelong prison. For someone with his pretty ass? Yohji shuddered. And he, Kudo Yohji? He was just debauched enough to cling to life no matter what, and having traipsed right into every trap and snare Kritiker had laid out for him. Truth was, after Asuka he did not care any longer. But Ken liked Omi, that was a fact. Ken still had dreams.

Omi snorted. "Likes me? Yeah, he runs after me alright, but he doesn't wanna touch me when it comes to the crunch. Not anymore."

"'Cos you made him promise when you broke up with him." Yohji shook his head. "Man, Omi. I'd give my hide for that. Someone to really like me."

He had said too much. Had let it slip unthinkingly, unaware perhaps of thinking aloud and startled back into reality by Omi's huge eyes that fixed on him with unsettled, bitter astonishment. "Likes you? Haven't you had enough of 'liking' already? I don't care who the fuck likes me," the boy growled.

"Not even who likes to fuck you?" Yohji forced a grin, ripped open the pack of tobacco and rolled two cigarettes. He lit them and offered one to Omi, who took it and began to puff.

Watching the smoke disperse, Omi shrugged. "Nah. As long as I get relief."

"Ever enjoyed it?" Yohji saw the boy start, then shrink back into himself, coiling up tightly, ready to jump, like a loaded steel spring. No, he sure had not enjoyed it. He knew sex, not pleasure.

"Hey, 'course, ol' man," came the snotty reply. A bit too cocky, too sassy, the defensive note a little squeak he tried to blot out with coughing.

Yohji sighed. He was twice as old as the boy and sometimes felt anient with exhaustion. Omi had turned nineteen a few days ago, and Ken had been the one to remember. With a few candles, cake and a kiss. He had woken Omi to the scent of coffe, taking the mug to his bed, and Omi had padded into the kitchen where they sat by the shabby table. Aya icy, unreadable, Yohji edgy, Ken naively expecting Omi to be pleased. The boy had stared at the flower-bedecked cake, at them, then at Ken, and his face had turned first mad, then stony. Without a word, he had stormed out, door slamming, and not returned until the small hours of that night, high on something and with the reek of cheap sex about him.

Yohji could imagine what he had felt. All the hopelessness of their existence had rolled over him that very moment, and Ken, bewildered and hurt, did not understand a jot of it. Because he refused to look ahead into the black void that was their future.

"Where's our professional asshole Fuji?" Omi broke into Yohji's gloomy reverie. His slender fingers curled around Yohji's wrist and squeezed, thumb slowly rubbing over Yohji's pulse. He had not given up; if Omi had set his mind on something, it was rather difficult to dissuade him. He would nag, pout, squirm, bribe. Ken would always melt. Aya would always get jarred. Yohji felt like bolting right now.

"Gone out," he managed around a mouthful of smoke.

Omi shifted closer, bringing his leg flush agaist Yohji's. "Yanno," he suddenly whispered, sounding strangely tired, "Ken... he... my birthday – shit, I dunno how to say it. You understood, didn't you?" Large blue eyes boring bleakly into green glasses.

Yohji dropped the glasses to the tip of his nose and met Omi's gaze. "Yeah. But he's right."

"I... I can't." Can't accept it, can't face it, can't live with knowing there's nothing else to come, only this, kill for money, try to save your hide, knowing one day someone will get you anyway. Senseless, meaningless, hopeless.

"Hope's a good thing to hold on to," Yohji said quietly, all lightness gone from his voice. He laid his hand over Omi's.

"How d'you know it's worth it?" Omi murmured, and if the boy had been less jaded, less hardened, Yohji could have sworn he would have cried. As it was, he only shivered a little, and Yohji wound his arm round his waist and drew him close so the boy could lean against him.

"I just do." Really, another lie, but what the hell? Nineteen was too young to contemplate stupid stuff.

They had killed folk younger than that. Omi had been living with seven years of blood on his hands and more to come.

Omi sagged against Yohji, hand with cigarette limply between his knees, eyes closing as he leaned his head back against the older man's shoulder, a whisp of smoke rising from his nostrils. "So you know how it works, Yo-kun?"

"What?"

Omi's throat jumped as he swallowed, lifted the cigarette to his lips for another long, lung-deep drag and gulped down most of the acrid smoke. He carelessly tossed the stub onto the bare planks of the floor that sported a fair number of burn spots. The stub smouldered, the pong of hot floor wax, dirt and burning paper rising into the dank, stuffy room. "How it is..." He choked, began to cough and dipped forward, while Yohji gently patted his back. "I mean," Omi said roughly when he could speak again, and he hid behind this head-down pose, elbows braced on his knees, hands dangling in between, "I mean how to make it... uh, nice?"

Ah. Another try at seduction, this time by manipulation through sorrow. A crude attempt at invoking compassion and guilt and using both for reckless blackmail. Yohji could not even smile. It hurt. "You really have no idea? C'mon, Omi, I'm not falling for this."

"But you should!" The chibi shot up straight and gave him a glare to rival Aya's sternest. "Who else can I ask? Ken's getting his hopes up; I don't want that. Aya... well, fuck Fuji, I don't think I'd cope – he scares me shitless when he's prowling. Rather you than me, huh? Anyone else? Someone from the street? Or a girl who ends up in all that shit that usually comes with us?"

Startled, Yohji blinked at him. Omi stared back his challenge, resentful and forlorn, making his young face as cold as frost. "C'mon, Yotan," he said, his voice softening into something cool, almost impersonal, "I'd like you to show me. For my birthday present. Wanna enjoy it, just once." Without raising false hopes in Ken. Without being afraid of Aya. Without being bruised or bled by a casual pickup. "And I won't hurt you, either."

Omi knew? For a moment, Yohji fought hard to keep his smiling, easy mask in place.

"Why d'you let him hit you?" the boy prodded stubbornly, concern lacing his gruffness.

Yohji managed another laugh, another cigarette, and to keep his hands steady as he lit it.

Omi would not buy it. "So he's got a vent, huh?"

Damn, the chibi was too lucid. "You got a livid imagination."

"No, I got eyes in my head and a brain that actually thinks," Omi retorted sharply. "Ken doesn't wanna see, but I do. Make me understand, Yotan."

Yohji dropped the laugh. He inhaled a deep breath of smoke and let it curl out from his nostrils, his eyes almost closing, his glance guarded behind golden lashes. "It's none of your business."

Omi bristled. "We're all each other's bloody business 'cos we're stuck with one another, like it or not. Gimme another fag, will you?"

He had a point, Yohji conceded unwillingly, but they would all go to hell if they started scraping at their respective facades now. Better to keep it all low, locked away safely, unacknowledged. Don't touch 'cos it hurts. Gods, how it hurt... No, rather than that, keep up the makebelieve. Determinedly, he shook his head and began to roll another couple of cigarettes. This time, Omi leaned down and took one with his lips. Brushing Yohji's fingers in the process, staying down, his tousled head hovering over Yohji's hand, flattened over the packet of tobacco in his lap. Over a growing hardness there.

"I don't want you like this," Yohji said softly, sitting deadly still. "You're not with it, chibi."

Omi let his head drop, burying it in crumbs of tobacco and the heat of Yohji's groin, his arms coming up and around Yohji's waist, clutching him close. "No, I'm fucked up like the rest o'you," he groaned.

A small pause, before Yohji lit his cigarette and laid his hand over Omi's neck. "You don't know what you want."

"Do you?" Omi blurted, without moving from his hot, safe, musky place, his voice muffled, sending a resonance straight into Yohji's hardened flesh, up into his stomach, down his thighs, along with a faint tremor. His mind chilled, but his body hummed. He tightened his hand slightly and felt Omi tense, drawing up his shoulders into the older man's touch.

Yohji pressed firmer, keeping him from sinking deeper into his lap. His fingertips would leave dark marks on the sides of the boy's fair neck. "Omi-"

"You want Aya? Or Schuldig? Or Crawford? They're all after your ass. I think Craw's your best match, but you won't go for him 'cos he bores you. You'll tangle with Schu or Fuji an' get bruised. Hell will have me before I grasp that."

Schuldig was Aya's match, Yohji thought faintly, and how did the chibi work all this out? Did he have a thing for Nagi then, gods forbid? That would leave Ken and Farfarello, and Yohji nearly laughed out loud at the idea. As it was, only a low grumble made its way from his belly to his throat. "Rubbish," he mumbled around his cigarette.

"Oh yeah?" Omi's stifled words vibrated against Yohji's crotch, through layers of clothes. Well, one layer. Yohji tended to go commando because Aya liked things quick and rough and practical. So he could conveniently screw and then deny it had ever happened. Aya was such a damn coward. Dreamer, he had spat at Yohji once, and it had sounded like a swearword.

"Yeah, rubbish," Yohji confirmed, a click in his voice in spite of himself.

Omi's nose rubbed against Yohji's hard groin. Yohji dug his hand into short hair and pulled the boy up to face him, then without a word drew him into a hug and bedded Omi's head against his shoulder. Holding him, in silence, motionless, time ticking away in the rhythm of their heartbeat.

"If you can make someone happy," Yohji whispered after a long while, turning his head so that his lips touched Omi's ear, "you feel lighter for a moment. Really light, as though you'd touch life."

"And then you lose it again?" came the bleak, quiet retort. More painful for its stillness, it's acceptance of things as they were.

Yohji knew surrender when he saw it, and to see the youngest of their group yield thus cut him to the quick. If Omi was losing himself like this, what about the rest of them? He could not allow this. Staring into nothingness, he began rubbing wide, slow circles over the boy's back. "Yeah," he breathed, "but it's better than being dead already. It hurts like hell, but it feels like... like redemption."

Omi dug his face into Yohji's shoulder and tightened his embrace. "Your point being?" he whispered, pain ragging his voice.

Another circle, a breath of smoke, a soft rocking motion, as though he was cradling a child, then Yohji said softly into the boy's hair, "Go, ask Ken, Omichi. If it doesn't work out, you're welcome back with me."

**xxx**


	3. Chapter 3 Homecoming

**Homecoming – Omi and Ken**

The room was small, dark because Ken had pulled the blinds down, and cluttered with sports gear – shirts, shorts, shoes, a bag, empty energy drink bottles. Clad in black shorts and a white vest, Ken lay on his futon, sprawled out on his stomach, head pillowed on his folded arms. For a moment, Omi hesitated in the door, wondering whether he was asleep, but with a sigh Ken suddenly turned and sat up. "In or out, Omi?"

And before Omi could retreat, Ken slipped across and pulled him inside, carefully clicking the door shut behind him. They stood still, Ken looking down at Omi, trying to read his face in the shadows, then he ruffled one hand through his own hair and stepped back with an uneasy laugh and a shrug. "Sorry, man."

He marched across to the window to open the rickety bamboo blinds and let in some of the neon-soaked nightair. It smelled of rain and damp tarmac, the turgid heat of a summer night. "I couldn't sleep," he said over his shoulder, and Omi watched silently as he carefully pulled at the string, left hand over right over left, to raise the bamboo. The orange light from the streetlamps cast deep shadows and high reliefs, playing on firm, tanned muscles and broad shoulders, tangling in short, shiny brown hair and washing over a surprisingly soft semi-profile.

Ken turned and wiped his hands on his shorts. "So?" he said, a little twang to his tone. "Couldn't you sleep either?"

"No," Omi murmured, "too hot."

With a visible effort, Ken tried to scrape together his usual plucky self. "Well, then... wanna stay nailed to the threshold, or what?"

Omi bit his lip. It did not matter when he picked up and dumped someone he did not know for a quickie, it never mattered what came before or after such encounters, usually neither party cared. This was different. He could see it in Ken's large, hopeful eyes, in the nervous little smile that flicked across his face, in the way his body was at war with itself, torn between walking across to bury Omi in a bear hug, and standing perfectly still.

He could see it in the tremor that ran down muscular limbs, setting his skin tingling in response, and the tiny hairs on his arms on end. "Shit," he sighed to himself, "shouldn't have listened..." to Yohji, the inveterate believer in good sex as a heal-all and love as something beautiful. Damn Yohji's stupid optimism.

"Huh?" Ken did step closer now, seizing upon the excuse that he needed to hear what Omi said. And because the stream of curses Omi released under his breath was so difficult to understand from anywhere else, Ken walked right into him and put his arms around his shoulders. "Whatcha sayin'?" he whispered into Omi's ear when the smaller boy tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

"I said, shit," Omi groaned, the sensation of Ken so close, so warm and wrapping around him sending him flying. As always. It was like coming home, like rain to parched earth, like two halves snapping together into one. The raging loneliness inside him ceased to burn, giving room to an entirely different kind of glowing.

Ken's arms tightened. "Why's that?" His breath wove through a few whisps of hair and tickled Omi's ear, then the ghost of a touch, warm and moist, fluttered down the boy's jaw and neck.

"'Cos this is... we can't... I mean, I mustn't... damn, Kenken, it's no strings, ne?" Omi nearly sobbed, his fists coming up between them, pressing hard against Ken's chest.

"You afraid?" The embrace grew firmer still, and Ken moulded Omi against his broad frame until they became one from knee to shoulder.

"Fuck, no, yes, whatever... just wanted... needed a quick... oh, hell," Omi moaned into Ken's mouth when it closed over his own.

"That why you ran off that day?" Ken gasped when they had to come up for air. "So you'd see no floweres, no cake, nothin' to remind you someone cares?" He laced his fingers through Omi's hair, splayed them over his cheeks, hooked his thumbs under the boy's chin and forced him gently to look up. "You wanna stay the night?"

Omi shook his head, sucked his lower lip between his teeth and bit down hard.

"Stop that, huh?" Ken rubbed a calloused finger across Omi's mouth until the lip was released, bruised and a bit swollen. "No strings. No past, no tomorrow. No prob." He smiled wistfully. "So stop fretting."

"Don't wanna hurt you," Omi grated out, tensing up again, beginning to struggle, pushing back, but Ken held him tightly.

"You won't. No more than tellin' me we're done with each other."

They stood in stillness for a heartbeat or two, soaking up closeness, warmth, each other's breathing and pulse, before Ken put his lips to Omi's ear and whispered huskily, "Bed?"

Sending a shudder through the smaller boy who melted against him with a faint nod.

It was Ken who gave and Omi who took, veering between sweet and wild, sobbing and laughing and kissing, until they sank into exhaustion, curled into one another on Ken's mussed bed, among sticky sheets and discarded clothes, the reek of sweat and spent bodies headily in the room. Ken's bronzed arms round Omi's pale, damp body, the boy's head nestled under Ken's chin, they were drifting satedly towards sleep.

"Yo, Omi, you happy?" Ken whispered after a while into the cloying night.

Omi stirred a little, his hand settling on Ken's waist. "You?" he murmured groggily.

"Yes."

And Omi felt as light as a feather as he floated off into a night of gentle dreams.

**xxx**


	4. Chapter 4 Morning Grump

**Morning Grump – Omi, Yohji and Aya**

The morning rose with the usual hustle of traffic, escalating fast into the chock-a-block of the rush hour and the scorching heat of another summer day.

Comfortable and snug in a well-worn tracksuit that belonged to Ken, Omi sauntered into the kitchen and sat down next to Yohji at the breakfast counter. "How d'you know?" he said by way of a good morning, and barehandedly scooped a palmful of rice out of Yohji's bowl.

Yohji smiled into his cup of miso soup. "Age?" he suggested.

Omi smiled back, blue eyes soft and hazed. "Or experience?" Well, his tongue had not been softened by a night of pounding by Ken. Or... well, he had not walked funny, had he? In spite of himself, Yohji felt his curiosity get the better of him, and he decided he would find out – later. Unlike Aya, he knew when patience was a virtue.

Omi stuffed rice into his mouth, a few grains sticking to his cheeks and chin. "Honest, Yo-kun," he spluttered, "is this why you keep slutting around? To give away some of this?" Of this feeling to be relaxed, pleasured, happy for some blissful moments in time. Of being free, able to bring joy instead of inflicting death.

"Dunno," Yohji said, setting down his soup, his gaze straying past the chibi who sensed him tense and turned to follow his eyes. "Perhaps it's..." more carnal, he had meant to say, but the words froze in his throat.

"Hey, Aya," Omi greeted the redhead who stalked right in without acknowledging either of them. All in black, Aya wore a sleeveless shirt and a pair of wide cotton drawstring trousers – his practice gear.

Goodness, Yohji thought chagrined, had he been up before everyone to wield that damn sword of his?

"Would you like some breakfast?" Omi went on, beginning to rise from his chair.

Yohji grabbed his wrist and forced him back down. "Don't talk at him," he advised kindly, with an edge to his tone, "or he might decide to gut you for lunch." He managed a quick grin and a wink at Omi, but his eyes followed Aya with a strange, wistful glance. Omi read anger, hurt and something almost feral, a fierce, all-consuming hunger. He ducked behind his fistful of rice, using his other hand to pick bitesized clumps with three fingers, eating and watching.

Aya made a show of ignoring Yohji. He rummaged through the fridge, then slammed the door shut and grabbed a bowl from the shelf to fill it with rice from the steamer. He then sat down by the table, opposite Omi, at an angle from Yohji, and began to eat. Delicately, with a pair of chopsticks, and focused only on the job at hand.

"Soy?" Omi offered. Aya graced him with a soft shake of his head, face shadowed by red bangs, eyes shuttered.

"Take some soup at least," the boy prodded, and Aya sighed, looking up at him.

"I don't want any," he said quietly.

He never yelled at the chibi, Yohji thought, but it was a different matter with Aya and himself. They would never talk, but while they were snarling or sniping at one another, Aya could not give him the silent routine.

"Has Ken had breakfast?" Mayday, mayday, Aya to Omi, mission control to agent, Earth to space... Omi's eyes grew impossibly large as his mouth stilled, half-open and filled with his last bite of rice, and Yohji could not suppress a smug little grin. Aya had just acknowledged what had happened, made it clear he knew and did not disapprove. Behind his stony facade, he could be sly and discreet if he wanted to. And after so many years, it still surprised Yohji and threw the other two off kilter in no time.

Without a word, Omi snapped his mouth shut, jumped up, yanked back the chair and grabbed a bowl. He spooned rice into it and rushed from the kitchen, stormed back in after a hearbeat to fetch some chopsticks and fairly ran from the room. The door to Ken's place down the corridor clapped, and then it was still.

Save for the soft, methodical clicking of Aya's chopsticks in his left hand as he lifted his bowl, cupping it with the splayed fingers of his right, to finish the last crumbs of his meal. Yohji watched, entralled as always when Aya let him partake of the spectacle called 'The Snow Prince does...' Insert as required. He loved it because Aya was not conscious of it, without a shred of vanity or mannerism in this show of elegance and fluid motion that could so easily translate into a swift, bloody death when he wielded his katana.

Or into a slow, agonising end if he was in a nasty mood. Yohji shuddered and tore himself away to finish his breakfast, but his appetite was gone and the silence grated over his nerves. "You could have the kindness of saying good morning when you breeze in," he said, his tone deliberately patronising. Admonishing a small child.

It always worked. Aya was predictable in certain things. Yohji suppressed a sigh of relief when a fierce glance pierced him from beneath the swathes of red hair. "Shut up, Kudo."

"Good morning to you too, Aya-kun," Yohji drawled pointedly.

"Don't call me that." A voice to freeze hell. Aya seething. Man, that was quick, Yohji thought with some satisfaction and considerable apprehension. Aya's body was still relaxed, easy, trained into obedience, reflexes preceding thought. Taut muscles could not react as well as soft ones. Watch out, Yohji, he's going to jump any moment.

A glance, a swift all-over, taking stock of Yohji's blackened cheekbone and the welts on his neck, the cracked lip and angry green eyes. Then the shutters slammed down again, Aya rose and took his bowl to the sink. Yohji watched him wash the dish, the chopsticks, dry them and stash it all away onto the shelf. Foulmooded redhead on tiptoes. Yohji suppressed the urge to tease. Aya arched, bent, muscles flexing unobtrusively beneath smooth white skin, long limbs moving in a sparse, measured way, wasting not an iota of time or energy. So damn deadly neat and efficient. Yohji was addicted to watching Aya, and one day it would be the death of him.

"Happy?" Yohji sniped, whether at his thoughts or Aya's scrutinising glance, he did not know.

Aya tensed at that. "It's your fault," he said, his deep voice flat.

"My fault my ass. You're fucked up in your head, Aya-kun, and you bloody hurt me. 'Cos I wanted to make you feel good?"

"Don't call me that!"

"I'll call you what I like, Ay-ack!"

Yohji was quick, Aya was lightning. The chair banged against the wall, Aya caught Yohji halfway between table and the saving door and slammed him against the counter, face down, a thigh between his legs, coming up hard and fast to jam a knee against soft parts even as he wrenched Yohji's arm back and up against his shoulderblades.

"No, you won't," Aya growled as Yohji writhed, wincing, trying to brace himself with his free hand flat against the tiled counterback.

"Yes I will," Yohji hissed back, relaxing to ease the pain, but Aya tugged his arm higher and dug his knee in more.

"No."

This time, Yohji remained still, panting and hoping blindly he would let off. Why could he not just fight back? Break Aya's wrist, kick in his ribs, show him who was taller and had the wider range when he was without his damn big knife... For some time now, he had noticed that their little power games had turned darker, slipping ever so gradually, becoming more violent, less forgiving. He could not figure out why, and now it ripped through him – fear. True, stark, unadulterated, making him shiver. For the second time in all those years, it blazed briefly behind his eyes until he managed to bring it under control... like that evening when Aya knocked him into surrender... what was going on?

The door flew open, Omi burst in and stopped short, eyes going wide, then narrow. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said quietly, looking from Yohji who went red with shame, to Aya, who suddenly let go and stepped back, face closed-up as always, a faint blush staining his cheeks.

One day, Yohji thought groggily as he straightened and brushed out his clothes, one day I'll make him fucking pay. Omi walked past them to take his and Ken's bowls to the sink to wash. Aya strode out, his shoulders set stiffly, and Yohji sagged back against the counter to shakily light a cigarette.

"Why?"

Yohji did not catch the soft question until Omi repeated it, never interrupting his clanking about with crockery.

Yohji had thought about it many a time. The answer still eluded him. He did not like being hurt. He did not like being ignored, or lied to, or put down.

But he did like Aya who had managed to rattle his smug, jaded soul enough to leave him reeling, who fascinated, baffled and infuriated him, and who knew perfectly well how to press all the right buttons to play Yohji to his whims. Yield, attack, evade, block. Give, take, elude, fuck. They usually ended up fucking, to make good again, to soothe, to settle an argument, to establish dominance, because Aya had assessed him and unfailingly picked out his greatest weakness. Had no qualms in using sex as his weapon of choice as far as Yohji was concerned.

Aya knew how to make him feel alive even if it hurt.

"You hope you'd find somethin' beneath the surface?" the chibi said over his shoulder, his light voice strangely tense, as though he was trying to hide something. What was he hiding? Disappointment, anger – they all had so much anger coiled up inside, enough to blow up the entire world and then some.

"I don't think there's anythin' but Aya," Omi went on, his tone becoming clearer, sharper, piercing Yohji's mind. "Just Aya. We're all just what we see, Yotan."

Cutouts of real folk. Reduced to shadows of what we could have been. Yohji tried a smile, just to make sure he still could. Finding to his utter relief that his mouth obeyed his mind and broadened into a stark, wide grin. "Yeah, hell, and why not."

Omi said nothing, and Yohji was suddenly overwhelmed by the need to go out. Away from the drab apartment, Aya's brooding, Ken's cautious silence, Omi's subdued sadness. So Yohji left them behind and launched himself into the broiling bustle of the summer-hot city. To chase life, hoping, still hoping, that this time, one time, he would catch hold of it, and then he would never let go again.

**xxx**


	5. Chapter 5 Fruitless Hunt

**Fruitless Hunt – Yohji and Aya**

Yohji did not find what he was after, not this time either: his desperate hunt for the essence of life ended as always, with a casual fling in a smoke-filled club, a drugged high and the inevitable crash afterwards as he was lurching home, the stench of cheap aftershave and stale tobacco clinging to him like a second skin.

He was too stoned to find the elevator button, so he began to climb the stairs, dragging himself up by the handrail, yawning and smoking the last cigarette from his last pack. He felt sore in all the right spots and empty inside.

He was clever enough to sense the presence of someone else before he reached their floor, and bless instincts and training, melted against the wall, into the shadows – black against blackness – ducking on the filthy stairwell. His heart lurched when he saw the door to their apartment gape open a little, a narrow beam of pale golden light cutting across the hallway and zigzagging down the first few steps.

Had someone tracked them down, wiped them out? They were never careless enough not to lock the door. Even drunk and drugged up to his eyeballs, Yohji would scramble inside and manage to put on the catch and turn the key.

And then something incredibly red flitted past the finger of light, a rush of black and crimson and ivory on the dark landing, the light glancing off a steely edge as it was caught by the katana and dragged into a shimmering arc before it plunged into darkness again.

Aya.

Aya practising his damn moves. At this ungodly hour, with his katana.

Scrambling to keep his composure, trying to sober up somewhat, Yohji stayed where he was, getting even more drunk instead on his favourite pastime: watching. Him.

Stormwhipped willow, foaming sea, lashing rain, driven, driven, driven... Aya moved without pause, an unceasing, relentless rhythm, tense, terse, a harsh dance of deadly elegance, filled with cold, seething rage, murderous force unconcealed, slicing, thrusting, chopping without mercy or second thought.

Step, turn, block, raise, dodge, thrust, step... the sword an extension of his body, this glorious body of which Yohji could never get enough, of his soul that still had wings but was blacker than midnight. Aya fighting was the same as Aya fucking, cold, thorough, relentless, no pleasure beyond the physical relief, pain given and received with unsatiable hunger...

Yohji felt saliva pool in his slack mouth and trickle down his chin. He swallowed hard and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. No, he was not afraid, right? Balinese held no fear from Abyssinian for they were a team, reliable as a clockwork, well-oiled, well-trained to an extent that they were able to anticipate each other's next reaction, the next move, the next kill. Backing one another on missions to survive and accomplish. Success meant life, money, another day, another fuck, the next kill. Failure meant death. They knew they balanced each other perfectly; their team needed every one of them to work as it did, for all of them to live on: letting one drop would bring all of them down.

Too late to tumble down the stairs. The soft hiss of honed metal cut towards Yohji who dazedly fell back against the wall, groped for hold and slipped down two steps, bruising his hip and folding into an uncomfortable slump as he stared up, along the cold length of the blade that lay flatly on his shoulder, close, so close to the vein on his neck that he could feel the sharp kiss of steel on his skin.

Yohji could not see Aya's eyes. They were pools of darkness in his pale face, shaded crimson by the hair that fell over his brow. Yohji only saw a white mouth set in a hard line, the faintest sheen of sweat on his upper lip and widened nostrils, the only sign that Aya had exerted himself. His chest beneath the black cloth of his vest was barely heaving, his hands calm enough for the steel not to show the slightest quiver.

How did he do it?

"Now what?" Yohji slurred, trying to gather himself up, perhaps – just in case, just perhaps – to reach for his watch, but the blade did not shift, nicked his skin instead, drawing a string of liquid beads, blood shimmering black in the half-light. Yohji froze. "Aya?"

Poised above him, legs braced, one a step higher than the other, katana in both hands, Aya stood motionless.

Did he breathe? Was it a vision, some nightmare conjured up by his drugged imagination? Yohji felt the warm, sticky trickle of liquid down his throat. No illusion. He itched to wipe it off.

Aya's stillness was less eerie than professional, not allowing his adversary to read his face, or his posture beyond the obvious threat, keeping himself closed-up, conceal any weakness, thought, or doubt, coiled tense and ready to strike.

Yohji felt his senses bang back into his consciousness, subjugating drugs and booze as his survival instinct kicked in with a vengeance. "Gonna puke," he choked, making to lean forward. A stab of wild satisfaction as Aya's blade followed his motion, allowing him to shift. Bad mistake. Wire whirred, a silver thread of tamed moonlight slicing through pools of darkness before it ensnared Aya's ankle, yanked him off balance. His upper body swayed back, he dropped onto his back and then, in an attempt to counter the move, lunged violently forward.

Yohji slipped aside. Aya fell without a sound, the blade missing Yohji and falling with him, his elbow rebounding from the wall as he hit it, steel flying across his chest, towards his throat as he plummeted.

Yohji lunged after him, grabbed Aya's sword arm by the elbow and pivoted it up and back at the shoulder joint. Aya continued his fall, weight and momentum to great to be broken. He slipped through Yohji's fingers until they clawed into Aya's wrist even as Yohji twisted away from the steel as it came up over Aya's head and down against the concrete steps where Yohji had crouched a second ago. Aya's knuckles hit the ground with a sickening thud, yet still he refused to open his grip. Yohji held on to the bannister with one hand, to Aya's wrist with the other, Aya lay sprawled over the dirty stairs, a sliver of skin gleaming where his vest had come out of the waistband of his trousers.

Yohji tried to catch his breath, calm his pounding heart, and felt his skin break a cold sweat. Shock. "Idiot," he half sobbed, half whispered, "Wanna slice yourself up now, or what?"

A tug at his hand. A tiny sound, a gasp, or a yelp, as Aya drew himself up on knees and elbows, then another, more determined pull as he tried to rise to his feet, red mane wild around his head, face hidden, low. Yohji held on, sudden anger surging through his fogged mind. "Whatcha think you're doing, huh?" He yanked at the white arm. Splinters of light flew off the steel still in Aya's hand. "Let go."

Aya's nails whitened. Yohji hauled him up and close in one smooth motion, before coordination left him and they staggered against the bannister, ricocheted off it and slumped back onto the steps. "Let the fuck go of that thing, Fuji, or I'll break your arm," Yohji grated, fearless now that Aya was too close to make use of his sword, and suddenly so very still against Yohji's body. Tense, so tense he seemed about to shatter, but still.

For a heartbeat, only their panting wove through the silence, before Aya shuddered and breathed a ragged moan, "I can't."

Yohji, hot with anger and drink, dug his nails into the taut tendon's of Aya's sword arm. "I said drop it. Now."

Aya drew breath with a painful hiss, but his hand did not open. "I can't," he repeated, a little louder, and Yohji felt the arm trying to flex beneath his grip. He felt the iron of spasming muscles, unyielding, locked into place by cramp. He could see Aya choke back a groan, the glitter in his narrowed eyes, the dampness on his skin gather into small drops that began to trickle down his temples, his nose, the sides of his neck. The muscles there stood out like cords, and Yohji started when he realised Aya would damage himself.

"Hey, easy," he gasped hastily, "easy, baby, now listen – Aya, listen to me, huh? Listen to that old slut for a sec, come on, let me reach around you, yeah, like this, hell, watcha done with yourself, you bloody idiot, here, hang on to me, that's right..." He hefted Aya up who had began to quake with a series of tremors that ran the length of his body, shaking it slowly apart, hardened muscles unable to yield, grinding against one another, bruising, the fine fibres tearing, parting, and within moments, Aya was hardly able to walk anymore.

Yohji cursed the drugs and the drinks that made him unsteady while he dragged Aya into their apartment, locked the door and drew him into the shower. He leaned him against the tiled wall of the enclosure and turned the water on. Then he drew Aya back against his body and ran his hands over his neck and shoulders, arms and back while letting the steaming hot water wash over them.

Aya was one long, low moan.

Time vanished. Yohji gasped and gagged, struggling to breathe in the steamed-up room, Aya whined in agony as slowly, his muscles began to thaw, regaining sensation but not control. Yohji could feel him grow heavier by degrees, until the red head lolled back against his shoulder, eyes closed, mouth half open, still dripping curses and groams.

Water was streaming down Aya's hand that still cramped around the hilt of the katana. Cautiously, Yohji ran his fingers over Aya's swordarm, slowly, from neck to shoulder to elbow to wrist, Aya tensing against him yet again but too weak, in too much pain to manage much in the way of resistance, too afraid perhaps of getting caught in an all-out seizure again, and Yohji touched his knuckles and began to pry his grip open, peeling finger by finger off the sharkskin. Numbed and oversensitised at the same time, he sucked the reek of wet blood into his nostrils, heaving with the stench that rose from the steel and soaking leather, the ugly pong of death that always seemed to cling to Aya as it clung to all of them.

Yohji's wire-scarred fingers kept running softly over Aya's calloused ones, from the root down, hooking under the whitened tips, gently tugging, loosening the death grip, caressing it open, coaxing it into straightening a little, if only enough to lose contact with the hilt, one by one, index, middle, ring finger...

Aya lifted his head and stared down at his hand, at the sword, and Yohji wanted to see his face, but as he leaned over Aya's shoulder, the steel clanked onto the tiled floor, Aya jumped, a strangled cry wrenching from his throat, a bereft, mournful sound. Yohji caught him before he could lean forward to retrieve the cursed thing, and gathered him into a hard embrace. Aya could not struggle.

Bedtime, Yohji thought, fuzzy with exhaustion. Omi appeared from nowhere just when he thought he could not manage one more step, and together they carried Aya into his bedroom. Omi did not ask. He vanished as silently as he had come, and Yohji found himself alone with Aya, shivering under the sheets of his futon, the soaking clothes discarded in an untidy heap on his clean tatami floor.

He would not like puddles spoiling his mats. With a sigh, Yohji collected the stuff and dumped it into its rightful place, a basket by the door. Then, with a glance at Aya who had his eyes firmly shut, Yohji undressed and slipped under the blankets too.

For some time, he did nothing but pass his hands over the trembling body. Sensing its power lines, the streams of life through Aya's limbs, the knots and loops that needed smoothing out, and he was content to do just that. Smoothing Aya back to a semblance of normality. Cajoling and soothing his muscles to unwind, to soften beneath his touch. He had long given up the illusion that he would ever bring Aya to relax completely for him, but this was not for himself. So he kept stroking, carefully averting any stray thoughts of what else this body was capable off, good or bad. Misery and bliss at such close quarters, one nothing without the other yet unable to be at peace. Aya was tearing apart, slowly but surely.

He lay so still that sudden panic struck Yohji, and he leaned closer still to listen to Aya's heartbeat. Thudding slowly in his chest, the vein at his neck, the faint bluish one at his temple. His eyelashes dark drops sunk deep into hollowed sockets, lids almost transparent. Aya's face was marble white, drained of colour. The faintest heaving of his chest, the tiny movement of air over his mouth betrayed his breathing, but he looked like a corpse. Yohji felt his own breathing hitch, his heart stutter, and quickly wiped his eyes, scrubbing away the vision.

"Aya, man, what was that all about?" he murmured, but the still form did not stir. Yohji rubbed his thumb over Aya's cheek. "I wish I could look into your mind," he allowed his thoughts to form words, now that in all likelihood Aya was out cold, "and guess what, seems Manx had a point and we're all losing it. Whatcha think, huh? Damn you, Aya, tell me I'm fucking wrong..."

He shoved aside a swath of dark red hair, almost black with dampness against the white sheets. A sliver of light caught in the tangled strands and gleamed at Yohji. Who blinked, passed his hand once more over the wild mass, and suddenly felt a chill blast through him.

For when he fished for this strange speck of light trapped in Aya's tresses, the light caught on his fingertip, and when he lifted it to his eyes to inspect it closer, he saw what it was:

One long, shiny copper hair.

And in his mind he heard bright laughter and a name.

Schuldig.

Aya had seen Schwarz.

**xxx**


	6. Chapter 6 Flight

**6. Flight – Omi and Ken, Yohji and Omi**

Yohji leaned against the wall by the kitchen door, his and Aya's empty mugs in his hand, and listened.

The door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of light fingering into the dusky hallway. It smelled of steaming rice and boiled fish, laced with the sweet aroma of strong coffee and green tea. Omi had made breakfast, as usual. When Yohji had padded into the kitchen earlier this morning, the boy was all cheers and smiles, as though he had not been there the night before, had not seen Aya's madness, or Yohji in his stoned state. As far as Omi was concerned, nothing had happened, Yohji thought with a storm of relief.

That now turned into black despair when he listened to the soft sounds coming from in there. Ken talking, quietly, his voice gentle, soothing. Omi was crying. Through the gap, Yohji could catch a glimpse of them, their youngest tem mate bracing himself over the sink, head hanging low, shoulders trembling. Ken standing behind him, one arm round Omi's waist, the other one circling slowly over his back, combing through his messy blond hair, and returning to stroke his back. Over and over again.

"I thought they were ok," Omi grated out between harsh sobs, "someone must be ok here, ne?"

"None of us is," Ken said quietly.

"Oh, that sure helps." More sobs, wild, cross ones, laced with heavy resignation. "Aya... oh, I'm afraid, Kenken."

"He went to pieces a long time ago," came the soft reply. "It's who we are, Omichi."

"I don't... want... this."

This time, Ken said nothing. Yohji saw him draw Omi close, nestling the blond head under his chin, settling his arms around the younger boy until the tears had run their course and the sobs began to fade.

"What a joke." Omi's exhausted voice, muffled against Ken's shoulder.

"Hm?" Hazel eyes almost closed, lost in the moment.

"Said, what a fuckin' blasted joke," Omi repeated, tensing briefly before slumping back into the embrace. "You believe we're making this rotten world a better place, huh?"

A long silence followed, before Ken sighed and pressed a kiss on the top of Omi's head. "Dunno. Perhaps not. But while we're around, we might as well make the best of it, ne? Take down a few of the bad guns, until it's our turn to pop it."

"And who's telling us they're the baddies?" Omi flung at him. "Who's making the fuckin' law, and who allows us to play God? Nagi... I mean, what if THEY have their own reasons, wouldn't they be just as good as ours?"

Ken shook his head. "Well, I guess... we gotta do our homework on this, huh?"

"Hah! Homework! Know what? I just wanna be normal!" Omi cried out, angry and sharp, "I want my family back and my own fucking life! I don't wanna go out and dart someone off 'cos someone else's telling me to!"

Ken caught him closer still, hugging for all it was worth, his voice remaining as calm and even as before. "We are normal. We're normal folk caught in this shit..."

"Bollocks," Omi snapped, "you think I'm thick? Only trying to survive... bonkers! We're making a damn good buck with all this... Why don't we up sticks and give her the bird? Manx, Krits, all o'them nutters! I don't want their money, it stinks of blood!"

Yohji chewed his lip. Why did they not do just that? Leave? He would have to ask Aya. Aya owed him quite a few answers now, a lot of them to do with a certain mindscrambling firehead. He would also have to think about it long and hard himself, and he did not envy Ken for having to face Omi's desperate interrogation.

Ken pressed his face in the crook of Omi's neck. "If you want, we can leave," he said quietly, and Yohji felt his breathing hitch as the urge to barge in and slap them back to reason surged through him.

No, it drummed in his mind, no-no-no-no.

"Yeah," Omi whispered, his body stiffening, arms rigid, elbows locked. "Away from here. Outta this life. I just wanna-"

"Not that, silly," Ken replied, matter-of-factly. "I cannot fuck a ghost, ne?"

A breathless little silence followed, and then a tiny sound. A gulp, not quite a chuckle, from Omi who turned in Ken's arms and snuck his arms round his taller companion. Who said, "Besides, someone's gotta take care of those two idiots out there, dontcha think?"

Me and Aya, Yohji thought, stupefied, how can he be this blunt? Some respect would surely not go amiss... Yanno, keep face and all that. Damn, even if they let rip like last night... And then he let a grin spread over his face and walked right in on them.

Predictably, they shot apart and skewered him with glares, Omi fierce, Ken curious and a little calculating. Yohji nonchalantly dangled the mugs from one finger. "Any tea left?"

Omi snatched the mugs off him and re-filled them from the iron kettle on the stove, thrusting them back at Yohji with enough force to have hot tea slop over his hands. "Ouch," Yohji said softly, his eyes homing in on the boy's gaze and holding fast.

The room chilled by several degrees. Ken took a step towards Omi, stance protective, fists curled at his sides. The boy jutted his chin out and stared defiance at Yohji. Whose grin had narrowed to a polite, distant smile. "So you're planning on taking a vacation? How nice. Going somewhere special?"

Ken took another step, his broad frame shifting between Yohji and Omi, and his arm reaching back to grab the younger boy's clenched hand. "We haven't decided yet," he said smoothly.

Yohji did not shift his eyes, and slowly Omi's face began to blush, his eyes filled up and his lashes fluttered, until he finally cast his glance down. Silent tears started leaking down his cheeks. Yohji hurt inside, but his face was an expressionless mask, still like a lake in winter, eyes glittering like green ice. His working face.

"Leave him alone," Ken growled, shifting a bit more to block Yohji's view of Omi. "You and Aya haven't been much of a help recently."

No mindgames needed here, Yohji reminded himself. Ken was as plain and blunt as a rock. He had always refused to do the complicated stuff – that was Aya's specialism, the crazy logic of a mind so tangled it could not figure out itself. Perhaps Aya was closer to Farfarello, and Crawford was Ken's match, leaving himself with Schu and Omi with Nagi... now why did this balance thing bother him so much? Perhaps it was easier to watch Schwarz to figure out what was going on with Weiss? Goodness, too much of this already, stop that, he chided, and said quietly, "Walking away won't help."

Ken pursed his lips. "Who knows? Can't get much worse than this, can it? It's like a madhouse now, and he needs out." He nodded at Omi, but his gaze rested still, gentle and stubborn on Yohji's face. "You tell me I'm wrong, Yotan." A dare. A challenge. If Ken and Omi broke away, nothing would save them from Kritiker's wrath. Besides, Yohji and Aya alone were no match for Schwarz. Surely they knew this? Were they this desperate, had it all gone this bad without him and Aya realising? In which case, the two younger ones had a point. A real, fat, bad, pain-in-the-ass point.

"No," Yohji set his words carefully, eyes never leaving Ken's, "I won't. And yes, we've hit the rocks. And yes, it can get worse, believe me, Kenken. I do know. Because I've tried it before, just as Aya has."

Ken stared, his mouth opening but no words coming out for a moment, before he snapped it shut again and leaned towards Omi who tugged at his shoulder and whispered something. Ken nodded, then simply broke away to wash the dishes, his broad back rigid, signalling that he was done with this conversatioin.

Quickly passing his hand over Ken's arm, Omi sniffed, scrubbed his sleeve over his eyes and met Yohji's waiting gaze. "You... I mean, you're not going to tell on us, Yohji?" he pleaded flatly.

Yohji turned away. "Come along. I need you to hack into some files." He did not wait but stalked out to take Aya his tea. When he came into the lounge, Omi slouched in his computer chair, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, his eyes staring through the screen into nothing while the laptop was booting up.

"Schwarz Concealed Archives," Yohji threw at him, plopping onto the couch and lighting a cigarette too. "There's a file with my name on it. Find it."

Omi searched, found and read. Growing paler, his hands beginning to shake as he scrolled, keyed, clicked through the information on that file.

The room was silent, stuffy with heat. From afar, they could hear Ken rummage in the kitchen to sort out their food for the day, and the shower – that would be Aya, Yohji thought with a twinge. He would be in excruciating pain without the drugs Yohji had left by the side of his pillow, and although Aya disdained anything that made life easier or more beautiful, he would be terrified of having another pain-induced seizure and take the stuff. That meant he would spend the day in a daze.

Somehow, this took the edge off Yohji's tension. Aya had been erratic and unpredictable, to say the least, for the last few months. Combined with this lethal big knife he loved so much, this had made them all uneasy. Perhaps that gleaming copper hair could provide a much needed explanation.

Omi had gotten him good tobacco, not any old cheap weed. Yohji sucked in a deep breath of smoke, had a predictable coughing fit that wracked him until he could hardly wheeze, and then fell back into the cushions and sprawled out, looking rattled and ragged. Ah, so good, the soft throbbing of the blood in his temples, the tingling warmth that relaxed his limbs... until Omi turned towards him, eyes wide, mouth slack. Yohji pulled another lungful of smoke from the cigarette and suppressed the scratching in his throat. "I tried to run," he said roughly, eyes shuttered, clouded and expressionless, "and they took the first thing they knew I loved. They took Aya."

Omi swallowed hard.

"Kritiker set him up," Yohji went on, "Schwarz jumped at the chance. I put him in their hands, and it was almost too late when I got him out of there." He paused. "Schu and Farfarello know their craft." Well enough to induce the hostage syndrome in someone who used to be strong and stubborn. Aya had turned into a bundle of pain, physical and mental, when they decided to apply their full range of skills. He never talked about it and the file only contained the basics. But Yohji knew that Aya had changed, and the changes were still chewing their way through his mind, slow and relentless like an acid bomb.

Yohji sighed. "We can choose, Omichi. We can choose to do away with our heart and become sort of... invulnerable?" He puffed out a stream of smoke, tasting the word on his tongue. It was acrid and cold. "Or we try and cling to that shred of soul we have, black or not, and face the world as it is. Live with ourselves and each other. Compromise."

He suppressed a shiver. Perhaps he had just found the answer. Perhaps Aya was trying to become just this: invulnerable, invincible, routing his soul in the process. But this also meant... something that took away Yohji's breath and drove water to his eyes. A wave of heat crashed through his body, and he leaned forward, choking on a mouthful of smoke.

Omi was by his side in a flash, to pat his back while he was wracked by coughing again, to firmly massage his shoulders while he was heaving. Bitter concern filled the boy's blue eyes. "But Yo-san," he whispered, "isn't it easier that way?"

"I'm not strong enough for it," Yohji gasped, "and I'd rather die than be like that."

Yes. A living hell was better than a cold death. For while he was alive, he could hope, and hope was all that kept him going. For his sake. For Aya. For all of them.

**xxx**

Omi had gone out with Ken. Yohji sprawled on the couch, smoking, drinking whisky, letting the hours trickle past in a grey, formless mass. Around midday, he was too pissed to walk straight, sometime after that, he puked his guts out over the toilet bowl and cursed when the computer link began to bleep. Incoming messages meant Manx had sent them something. Little goodies, Yohji thought with foggy sarcasm as he dragged himself back into the living room. Omi had assembled a mission file with the information he had hunted down on the web, and now they were missing only one piece: when and how they were going to be paid. No money, no job. Simple.

Yohji snorted as he downloaded the money order. First instalment now, rest after completion. For longer missions, they took one third in advance, another when the plans were laid and approved by Manx and the client, and the rest when they were done. Orderly, tidy, like any good tradesman. They were contractors of Death. Approved professionals, carrying Kritiker's seal of quality. Of course, Kritiker could force them to work on a bare minimum, just as Schwarz had to. But Kritiker found it wiser to oil a good working relationship than using brute force alone. It had turned out to be more motivating, as Manx put it, to reward people well for work done to satisfaction. It kept the best brains on the job. Some, she had pointed out with a nasty smile, enjoyed it. Yohji had sensed hatred radiating from her, with an intensity that made him catch his breath in his throat, and wondered what the source of her anger could be. He had as yet to find out. If he knew, perhaps he could break Kritiker's vise on them all. He thought that he had not paid enough attention to this possible crack in the cage that held them hostage, and vowed to change this as soon as he got a chance.

While the details trickled through the secure link, Yohji lit a cigarette – the last but one from the pack of tobacco the chibi had given him – and saw his hands tremble. He stuck the smoke stick between his lips and lifted his hands, fingers spread, to turn them slowly before his eyes. Inspecting them like an alien being, something not part of himself. Long, strong, murderous hands, with elegant fingers, slim and hard like those of a violin player. He knew every groove, every cut from the wire where it had sliced through leather gloves into soft skin, every scar and mark and crease. Hands that had so much blood on them. Gifted, clever hands that could pleasure a bed-partner and soothe and knew how to heal. That could send Aya into mindless passion. Capable of soothing his nightmares with a single touch to his chest, where his heart beat.

Aya. Yohji let his hands drop and pressed them between his knees. Ash dripped from his cigarette, unheeded. He rocked back and forth on the chair, longing for the download to complete – yo, done. Yohji rushed up and to Aya's room.

The medication had knocked him fairly out again. Curled up and facing the door, he lay atop his sheets, his crimson hair a bloody puddle around his head, whispering around his pale neck and white shoulders. He wore a black tank top and wide drawstring trousers, his usual attire, and his feet, small, bony feet, stuck out from the dark cotton folds like lost birds. Yohji caught his breath as desire hit him, for a heartbeat overwhelming any clear thought. He wanted to touch these feet, run his hands up those legs, roam over the flesh and wiry red hair at their juncture, and up to explore anew every inch of Aya's hide, trace every scar that marred it to mirror the marks that were worse on his soul, tangled his mind and gnawed into his reason. Slowly, he let go of the breath he had been holding to regain control. Calm down, buddy, he told himself, there'll be a time for this too... he refused to give up hoping.

Even in his dazed state, Aya dragged his eyes open when Yohji slipped into the room and knelt by his side. To find that Aya hugged the hateful steel to his chest. The katana was half drawn from its scabbard and gleamed coldly in the faint light. Yohji met Aya's gaze and saw the gleam beneath the drugged mist. Yohji sank into a crouch and forced a smile before leaning in to kiss pale, cold lips. Aya did not stir.

"You left me there." His voice an icy whisper. Yohji froze, his heart throbbing with sullen pain. "You abandoned me, and then you left me with them until they had enough of me and threw me out into the streets." Aya's words dripped away, with sharpness and clarity to match his sword. They cut Yohji just as deep. They were intended to, and they made him bleed.

He had bled often since scraping Aya up from the dump where Schuldig had left him to die, body broken, sick of mind, pining away for the tormentor with the gleaming copper hair. He had only been allowed to retrieve Aya because they had WANTED it, robbing him skilfully of the redemption he craved. He had hoped it would all soften in time, but time had done nothing for them. "You saw him again. I don't understand, Aya."

Aya's face remained blank as a ghostly chuckle ran from his lips. "He's more honest than you, Yotan. He's more like me." Aya sighed deeply, his eyes drooping, lashes settling against blue-transparent skin. "He hurts the same way."

Bitter, Yohji stared down at him, but when he lay down by Aya's side and pulled the sheets over both of them, one muscular white arm slipped across, angling around his waist and drawing him close until red hair mingled with dusky blond and Aya's nose nestled in the tousled dark hairs of Yohji's armpit. Touch, smell, feel. Yohji. Smell is more powerful than sight. A remedy against nightmares, a reminder of who he was with right now.

Yohji managed to magic a smile into his tone as he said into Aya's mussed hair, "He can't give you the same pleasure, Aya."

A wriggle and a groan, then a low growl, "Sex, always that... you're such a filthy slut, Yohji. There's nothing but fucking on your mind."

"Fucking you," Yohji agreed peacably, "Gods, yeah, can you blame me for this?"

"Yes, I can, I do." Aya's damn literal way of interpreting things.

"'Kay." Yohji could have jumped him right then, but did not dare to move: the sword lay between them, the blank steel beginning right where their groins almost touched, separated only by a blade's width, Aya's right leg curled around the sheath to pin it. Desperate mesures, Yohji thought grimly, doesn't he think a simple no would be sufficient? Well, lately Aya had not taken too well to rejection, perhaps he considered a payback by Yohji due and in order and this was his way to drag it out a bit. Yohji sighed, weaving his hand through crimson hair. "Aya," he said.

No reaction. Aya pretended to be asleep.

"Aya," Yohji repeated, and red lashes lifted a little, lids cracking open with a gleam of darkness at the sudden urgency in Yohji's tone.

"Nani?" An unnerved rumble deep in Aya's throat.

"You sometimes think you're going mad? And watching yourself?"

The hooded glance widened a bit, then fell shut again. "No. And no. Let me sleep now. Phew, you stink."

Ignoring the snipe, the intended distraction, Yohji continued his caress. "Aya," he breathed, back to soft and lulling, "I can't undo the past." He leaned over, careful not to cut himself or press the blade against Aya's naked skin, and touched a soft kiss to his shoulder. "But I won't walk from you again."

No reaction. Perhaps Aya's breathing deepened a little, perhaps a tiny tremor run through his limbs. Perhaps some dampness shimmered beneath his lashes. Yet he lay as still as a stone, and Yohji slid back onto the futon, into this strange, separated embrace. "Never again," he whispered, closing his eyes to allow Aya's scent to wash over him. Blood, sweat, and steel. Aya.

Never again to walk away and lose.

The money had come through. They had a job to do.

**xxx**

**To be continued...**


	7. Chapter 7 No Answers Schwarz

**7. No Answers Schwarz and Darkness – Crawford and Schuldig**

Clack, clack, clack. The butterfly knife in Schuldig's hands flew open and snapped shut, an irregular sound punctuating the sanctified stillness of Crawford's room. The knife belonged to Farfarello.

Irritably, Crawford adjusted his glasses and tried to concentrate on the computer screen that was cluttered with multiple windows, showing graphs and running data series. He could feel Schuldig's eyes on him. Those intense, hard eyes that would melt into pools of cold fire when Schuldig believed himself unobserved. He lounged in a large leather armchair by the door, a place reserved for visitors, and Crawford could sense frustration and anger roll off him in waves.

The throbbing heaviness in his own head was beginning to coil into a headache of major dimensions, and finally he gave up trying to soak up the meaning of the information the computer churned out at him. He leaned back into his chair and took off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose before meeting Schuldig's eyes.

A touch, a flare of something, before the redhead dropped his glance, concentrating on the knife in his hands again. Clack, clack, clack.

"Will you stop this?" Crawford did not need to raise his voice. Schuldig's fingers stilled. "And stay out of my head, it wouldn't please you right now to crawl around in there."

A sigh, and Schuldig got to his feet and walked to the window. The place they occupied now was located on the ground floor of a wing of the Takatori residence, a generous apartment with enough rooms for each of them to hide from the others should they so feel. They often did. The window of Crawford's room gave onto the yard enclosed by the three sides of the massive house, manor-style. Not a nice view, Schuldig thought vaguely, but then, they were not here for their pleasure.

"That's right," Crawford talked into his mind, "so what is it that bothers you?"

"I'm cold," Schuldig replied over his shoulder, linking his hands behind his back and touching his brow to the cool glass of the window pane. He had barely taken the time to array himself properly this morning, Crawford noted, a small frown appearing at the root of his nose as he polished his glasses with a small silk cloth and put them back on. And his hair, this impossibly bright copper hair, fell over his shoulders in a tangled mass.

"Take a hot shower."

Schuldig shuddered. His way of laughing, Crawford knew. "It's my head, Brad. My brain's freezing."

Where Farfarello's mind was roasting, burning up with a firework of emotion and too much pain to process, a permanent electric storm that tormented him beyond physical pain, Schuldig's was a spacescape. Crawford had found nothing but cold blackness the few times he ventured there, and it had chilled him to the marrow. Schuldig's pain was different from Farfarello's, from his own predicament, from Nagi's, but they all had in common some kind of suffering of the mind that cried for release.

Never to be granted. The elders of Eszet owned them because they owned the minds of Schwarz.

Crawford sighed and stepped around his desk to join Schuldig by the window. Following his gaze, he saw a string of black limousines coiling along the driveway, past the rondel before the main entrance, men in black suits and sunshades watching to both sides of the walkway and flight of broad, flat steps as the first guests of this evening arrived. Another party, a heavy-weight bout of debauchery, booze, drugs, paid sex... Takatori spared no expense for the likes of his fellow suits. Well, at least his wife was out of the way – he had packed her off to some expensive spa. Better for her, Crawford mused, those parties were not a nice sight for anyone with a shred of decency.

Schuldig's rumbling snigger trickled into his mind. "Then why're we doing this?"

Crawford calmly brought out a packet of cigarettes from his immaculate suit jacket and offered one to the redhead. "Because we know nothing else, and it pays, and it gives us somewhere to stay."

A strange, vague warmth washed through him as Schuldig leaned forward to take fire from the lighter Crawford flicked at elbow-height, and for the merest fraction of a second, that fiery red mop of hair brushed against the suit-clad chest, before exhaling a long, relaxed breath of smoke. "I could feel that, you know," Schuldig said, settling his lanky frame into the window, one foot up on the white laquered sill, spine slumped against the sash, arms folded on the raised knee, the other foot resting lightly on the carpeted floor. A sensual pose were it not for the chill that radiated from his eyes.

"What are you after, Schu?" Crawford tried to distract from the remark. "I got work to do, and I'm going to have a nasty headache, so hurry up and tell me, and then get yourself gone."

"Have you seen something? About tonight?"

Crawford blinked, his mouth twitched a little. Seen a dusky blond turning up among the guests, backed up by that mad redhead with his katana, ready to run through whoever... so much anger... but then, perhaps this was no wonder after what Schuldig and Farfarello had been up to with him.

"They must realise we know," Schuldig said before Crawford answered. "So why would they do it?"

"You are the one rummaging in other people's brains," Crawford replied coolly, "Perhaps you figure it out when they're here."

**xxx**

Bad idea, Yohji thought when he tugged the bow-tie in place before the stained mirror in the bathroom. Bad, bad, bad, every nerve in his mind screamed at him. To go to that party, in the hope to get close to their target – like a couple of sluts, no less – but right under Takatori's nose was recklessness bordering stupidity. Whose idea? Aya's of course, and Omi had just given in.

So unlike Omi. He should have pleaded, entreated, and if nothing helped, ordered. He could order Aya around for Aya did acknowledge Omi's cooler head, his sharp analytical mind, his ability to oversee a situation before any of them did. But Omi had done nothing. With a mere irritated blink and a reluctant nod, he had accepted Aya's bullish idea to go in there and get the target.

Oh, Aya might be cold but he was not cool. A timebomb waiting to go off, Manx had sneered. Was this it?

Or, Yohji stilled, meeting his own glance in the looking glass, was he after something else entirely? Schwarz must know they were coming in. Schuldig would know.

Yohji felt something icy rush through his body. Unthinkingly, he touched the watch on his wrist, fingering it routinely to make sure the wire would work smoothly, a habit as old as his career with Weiss.

Omi's eyes had not been kind when they scanned over Aya this morning, but when Yohji sought his glance, the boy had turned away and glared at his laptop to read out flatly what they had been over many a time already. Go in, get close, the guy liked pretty boys, use this, it was that type of party, Aya would look ravishingly good... splendid...

Yohji sucked his breath in with a sharp hiss as the door opened and the mirror reflected Aya. Long, slender; crimson hair flaring around his white face, eyes shuttered pools of darkness. He wore nothing outrageous: tight black leather jeans, a sleeveless black net vest through which his small nipples showed, and his almost ankle-length, sharply tailored leather coat, the outfit completed by heavily buckled black boots. No jewellery except for the earring that belonged to his sister. Old habit, he had declared with a shrug when Yohji asked once. The very simplicity of his attire would make him stand out in the crowd of glittering, colourful robes and stiff suits, not to mention his flaming hair and sharp features.

"Stop staring," Aya commanded in his smooth, deep voice. Oh, and the contrast of his frigid beauty with this full, husky voice...

Yohji bit his lip. How could he stop staring at this?

"You're an idiot, Yotan," Aya stabbed home.

"No, Aya." Yohji turned to meet his eyes but Aya refused, hiding behind ragged bangs. "I haven't lost myself enough to act the part."

"Whatever," Aya replied coldly and withdrew, all fluid motion, the katana well-concealed under his coat – he intended to wear the thing in full view that evening, as a wicked kind of fashion accessory.

It was that kind of party.

Yohji felt very uneasy.

**xxx**


	8. Chapter 8 That Kind of Party

**That Kind of Party – Yohji and Aya, Schuldig / Schuldig, Nagi / Manx, Persia**

Aya avoided looking at Yohji who sat at his side in the car Ken drove. A large limo, to blend in with the others. Omi had stayed back at the apartment to co-ordinate the mission. They had invitations, they had studied the backgrounds of the guests Takatori expected: dealers, some scientific big wigs, no wives, which definitely did not mean no women.

Yohji was chain-smoking. He ignored Aya's murderous glances, after all, once they were there, they would be smoking as well, and possibly other stuff than his plain old tobacco. He was acutely aware of Aya's thigh against his, of smooth leather rubbing over the fine wool of his suit, and of his body's reaction. Aya always did this to him.

"I wanna make love to you," he murmured under his breath, not loud enough for Ken to hear, but clear for Aya, who seemed startled for a heartbeat, a flash of hunger in his eyes, before they went flat and cold again.

"Don't bother," he retorted. "Screwing will do."

Yohji smiled lopsidedly and returned to watching the lights of the city fly past in bands of colour, gleaming in the wet tarmac and glittering in the soft rain that had begun to fall. He wished they could have travelled on like this forever. At least Aya sat by his side, even though-

A stab of pain lanced into his head. Like the grasp of a hand, greedy fingers rummaging around in his brain, raking up this and that, scraps of thoughts and memories, making the clarity of his mind turgid like mud swirling about in disturbed waters. He hissed and pressed his hands to his temples. The pain clenched around his nerves, twisting and bunching them into knots, tearing and tugging as though it was trying to pry away pieces of tissue, and he had to struggle against a sudden, hefty wave of nausea.

"...ji?" Aya shook him, the richness of his voice drawing Yohji back into the softly humming reality of the limousine, the padded leather scented gloom of the car like a cocoon from the outside world. The wheels crunched on gravel as they turned onto the driveway of the Takatori mansion. Yohji stared into Aya's face, cool as always, and wondered how he could have missed the chunk of time they had taken to get to the main gate, pass the first checkpoint, and arrive at the queue of cars that slowly moved towards the main entrance.

I wish I had your memories.

A venomous hiss in his brain, the whisp of a thought that grated over his, that was not his own. Gone before it emerged into his consciousness, an icy touch to his mind. "Aya?"

The car stopped, Ken got out and opened the door for Yohji first, then Aya. Aya slid out with the fluid elegance he was barely aware of, the katana so much a part of himself that it would not hinder him in the least. Yohji reached for his arm and placed it on his own, a perfect gentleman leading his partner to the dance.

Something whispered through his mind, as light and cool as silk, a touch less harsh, less intent on hurting than before.

"What isss it?" Aya hissed through clenched teeth, and Yohji realised he had slowed down. "You gonna blow this mission, Yotan?"

"I got a headache," Yohji said rather lamely as they approached the door. A couple of bouncers here, another four blokes in suits and shades. Guns. Surveillance equipment to cover every angle of the building. They had studied the blueprints carefully and Yohji knew every single lens, every wire and switch, along with the manpower involved.

Aya gave him a glance, and suddenly the pale face transformed, fascinating Yohji as always: thin lips relaxing into a sultry pout, red lashes lowering to give dark eyes a smoky softness, oh, and Aya had used some black eye liner and eyeshadow, and he had slicked on some clear lipgloss. The leatherclad body moulded against Yohji, and Aya slipped one arm around Yohji's waist, his hand ending up cupping Yohji's backside.

Yohji knew what they looked like now to the rest of the party. Mostly older men, with pretty young women or the occasional handsome boy by their sides. He knew the kind of glances or stares they provoked when turning up like this – like a couple, good-looking youthful male with his beautiful boytoy. Aya looked stunning, a sliver of darkness cutting through the glittering brightness of the chandelier lit room. The place was all modern understatement with polished wood floors and cool cream walls, but mirrors – oh gods, mirrors – clad much of the room from floor to ceiling and along the plain walls, long, lushly covered chaiselongues, piles of rugs and cushions, couches. That kind of party...

And those guys that could have been thrice Aya's age were ogling him and Yohji, trying to work out who called the shots. Yohji had not yet spotted their target and already liveried waiters were flitting about him, offering drinks and snacks, and the soft music and heady odour of rain-wet perfumed skin made his head spin. He really needed to sort his lifestyle out, it began to wear him thin. He handed a glass of champagne to Aya, the gesture easy, yet signalling clearly that he was the one who paid for the pleasure and Aya the one who got paid.

Aya's possessive arm around his waist told another story. Mine, it proclaimed, I can do with him what I like for I have the skills and he has the want. No broken toy, no slave to a master, but sly, sinful knowledge that comes at a price. The secrets of lust for sale. His hand – splayed on Yohji's backside, fingertips curling into the valley between rounded muscles – screamed sex. And because it had a price, it was available to whoever paid well enough.

Ok, play the part. Yohji let himself slip into his role later than usual, weighed down by a strange reluctance that puzzled him. They had done this kind of thing before, they knew the dangers and pitfalls, how to avoid them, and to block things out if they could not avoid them. He briefly closed his eyes to concentrate, and when he opened them again, his lips and eyes began to smoulder. He dipped his tongue into his cocktail glass and licked around the rim, finishing with a flick over his lips to catch the sweet liquor before it could drip. His free hand slithered up Aya's back to cup his neck; long, gloved fingers wandering on to play with red hair, a lazy, thoughtful gesture while Yohji's green gaze floated over the guests, skilfully avoiding to fasten on anything in particular. A studiously playful, jaded, slightly bored expression on his handsome face, carefully tousled blond hair framing sweet, soft features, a lush mouth, shadowy come-to-bed eyes that held the promise of giving pleasure as much as receiving it, Yohji provided the heady contrast to Aya's terse darkness.

Aya's fingers dug into Yohji's flesh a bit more. Hate it, this tiny gesture screamed down Yohji's mind, hate sharing you like this, gonna kill them all for barely looking, hate, hate, hate, hate...

It hit Yohji with a force, and when he turned his head to look at Aya, he met his glare. Damn, they had a mission, and Aya... composed, austere, superior Aya was not playing along with sufficient conviction. Yohji leaned in and pressed a hard kiss onto his lips. "Mine," Aya managed to snarl into his mouth before he pulled away harshly. Yohji tightened his grip in Aya's hair, but his gaze remained sensual, searching, seeking.

Soliciting, Aya fumed silently while he licked Yohji's taste from his glossed lips. Someone with whom to share his toy. He closed his eyes and let his head drop back, the slight discomfort from Yohji's pulling his hair a welcome sensation, grounding him in the here and then, focusing his fire. He knew it would show temptingly in the front of his tight trousers; and his tautly arched body, pressed tight against Yohji's long limbs, his exposed white throat and closed eyes proclaimed willing, chosen surrender: take me, fuck me, pay me, play with me...

Not here, Yohji thought oddly, as the warmth began to pool in his stomach. He had seen their target, a tall, grey haired man in his late fifties, clad in an expensive suit, with an expensive blond girl in a red dress on his arm. The target was talked at by another man with his back to Yohji and Aya. The girl stood a step behind the target, a professional mask of interest barely covering her boredom.

Talked at, because the target kept glancing over the shoulder of the other man at Aya. Yohji lit a cigarette and took another cocktail when a waiter sauntered past with a tray. Aya grabbed a second glass of champaign. Bad move, Yohji thought crossly, he could not hold his drink well, and this was a tiny sign of rebellion that did not fit the image they meant to project. They had not planned to play the 'wild thing' card because Yohji felt uneasy with putting Aya up for that sort of game.

A spark of interest in the older man's eyes set Yohji's instincts on edge. Quickly, he reached for the glass in Aya's hand and with a firm, swift twist of his hand, removed it and dropped it to the floor, his eyes locking with the other man's gaze. Challenging him in a lewd, languid way.

The glass shattered, a brief silence hushed the room, and Yohji delved into Aya for a harsh, deep kiss, forcing him to his tiptoes by cupping the back of his head and tugging him up. I am calling the shots, this proclaimed, while I am paying... dare me, and I'll show you how to tame this pretty toy.

Aya struggled – hell, he did, for a brief moment, and Yohji's heart lurched as he wondered in earnest how to complete this mission, or whether to pull out before it was blown, to sort out whatever bugged his partner and pick up the pieces another time – but then Aya went limp and pliant, even brought his arms round Yohji's neck and meekly returned the kiss. But he had spoiled it, he had taken things to the level Yohji had tried to avoid.

Damn him, but he was tasty.

Another stab of headache. Yohji staggered for a heartbeat. The chill he felt was not right for the room was hot with the light of the chandeliers and the murky heat of the summer night. The target was now trying to get out of the conversation, nodding, forcing a smirk, his eyes flicking back and forth between the man who was talking, Yohji, and Aya.

Settling on Aya with a sheen of greed.

Too easy, something throbbed in Yohji's mind, way too easy, something stinks, hell what's wrong here... An image of Aya on his knees flashed through Yohji's mind, the flaming head bent low, arms braced on the floor, his body bare, the katana bare and bloody in front of him, how pretty, how very beautiful, not here though, not now...

The man had decided to interrupt the conversation, polite or not, and consoled the other bloke by shoving the girl towards him. Skilled in her trade, she involved the rejected one into soft chatter, and the target began to cross the room.

Yohji blinked. His vision had blurred for a moment, and when it cleared again, he found himself striding towards the door, Aya in tow, casting knowing glances over his shoulder, the target prowling after them, intent clearly written across his face. It was not a nice sight. It bothered Yohji that he could not recall having made a decision to move, that he was not sure they had planned to walk out so soon, well, and that he had no idea whether it was actually soon or not.

They stepped outside, into the cool vestibule, waited until they could be sure their target had seen them and then walked up a stairwell that led to the living quarters. It was still up here, the thick carpet swallowing every sound, and it was dark with only a couple of wall-washers casting a golden glow against the white ceiling.

Why were they going this way? Yohji started. They were meant to leave the house, to find a secluded spot in the park where they could finish their business. And to hell with it all, one of those many doors along this corridor opened, bathing them in a sudden flood of yellow light.

Too late to melt away.

A tall, lanky shadow appeared in the door. Aya froze. Yohji felt a tremor run through him, and his heart sank away into some unknown depths.

"Why, guten Abend," a soft voice sang – into his mind or into his hearing, he could not tell – and the light set a halo of bright copper hair aflame when the man stepped aside and reached out in an inviting gesture. "I have been waiting for you."

**xxx**

Blood. Aya watched, fascinated, as the crimson trickle ran down the length of the katana. He felt the hot liquid drizzle down his thigh, from a cut high on the inside. He felt the scarred young whitehead lap it up greedily while burning copper hair trailed over his shoulders, his throat, his chest, clever, hard hands everywhere, exploring, owning every inch of his skin, while the razor edged steel wavered before his eyes, sunlight playing up and down its length, shimmering into Aya's eyes and driving away the darkness within.

Brightness. Bright lights, bright pain, bright pleasure. He wanted more, he wanted less, he did not know.

Yohji would have known. Could have shown him. But Yohji had abandoned him to his fate, had left Weiss and disappeared, leaving behind this cloying, bottomless darkness that had begun to fill Aya's soul. Washed into it in ever retreating waves, like the flow of ebb and tide, but every time it receded a bit less, drowned a bit more of the light Yohji had brought into his life.

He had let it. Readily. It covered the howling agony inside him with merciful non-feeling. Yet he had not reckoned on the longing of his soul. Schuldig had found it in the depths of his mind and gleefully dragged it out, kicking and screaming, and he had done it in the most torturous way Aya could dream of.

No beating, no tearing, no force. Schuldig only talked. In his chill, sibilant voice, the cold veneer wearing thin now and then when Aya's eyes went wide and his body responded against his will, to the images Schuldig tore from his mind, culled from his heart and laid out before his eyes. Images of Yohji. Always Yohji. Schuldig was a stickler for detail, and an inveterate collector of emotions he was not capable of producing himself. He had bags full of Yohji, and he spilled them all.

By the end of a time span Aya could not quantify, he knew that Schuldig was in lone agony, Farfarello hankering for touch but so afraid of it he would bite the hand caressing him, and Crawford tormented by foresights he could not control. Their senses so heightened by the experiments they had endured that they lived in a world of neverending floods of colour, smell, sounds and thoughts, nightmarish visions of minds not their own, unable to shut out what intruded into their very selves. Unable to close off what made them who they were, from what poured into them from elsewhere. Their only desperate hope an improved experiment that they needed to believe in restoring normality to them.

Schuldig showed Aya how that felt, too.

By the end of that time, Aya had begun to slice his katana through his own skin and let Farfarello have his violent way with his body. To comfort? To find oblivion? Anything but thinking of Yohji's warm, gentle passion.

A shadow of which he enountered in Schuldig's arms, and he was so lost that he had no idea why this was happening. Had they not been trained to withstand all this? To stand through torture and rape?

But Schuldig did nothing of the sort. He merely kept conjuring images of comfort and warmth that belonged to the past, and he did not ask anything but an illusion of the same in return.

It wracked Aya to bits.

Were they pleading with him, with Weiss, to leave Takatori alone so the experiments could be concluded?

Think of it what you like, Schuldig had whispered in his mind.

And he had thought. Had not been able to stop thinking about Schuldig since then, and when Yohji returned, Aya felt strangely detached. Afraid. Afraid of going through more of the same when he let Yohji back into his life, but he had not managed to lie to himself: Yohji had never left his soul in the first place.

So he had sought out Schuldig to have his memories ransacked, routed, cleared out like so many cartfuls of rubbish. Schuldig had offered mindblowing sex but refused to erase the things that tormented Aya. Too easy, he had said, and wrong.

Wrong. Why had he said this?

**xxx**

Yohji watched Aya step forward, reach out for the shadow with the flaming mane, and melt into his arms. Schuldig held Aya close, cradling him for a moment, before looking up and meeting Yohji's eyes over Aya's shoulder. "I think we should go inside." The cool voice reached Yohji – his ear, his mind, he did not know – like the whisper of the night breeze that streaked into the large room from the open window.

The door clicked shut discreetly behind them. Aya walked to the window and scanned the yard he could oversee from here. Gleaming cars, suited men with guns and walkie talkies, the bright shine of flood lights. No one appeared to be alarmed.

"What is going on, Aya?" Yohji demanded, unmoving by the door.

"You look stunning," Schuldig cut in, with a sliding step towards Yohji.

Who narrowed his eyes. "It was you! In my head, earlier!"

A slow, dark smile rippled over Schuldig's face. Handsome, in a wild, sharp way, with eyes like splinters of blue ice and his untamed mane of gleaming copper, he possessed an almost feral aura of dominance. He wore plain black, like Aya, but his arms were covered too and his hands encased in soft gloves, like Yohji's. His pale face and fiery hair were set off by all this darkness, and Yohji could not help but stare.

Always a sucker for visuals, huh? Schuldig mocked in his mind.

"Yeah," Yohji replied thoughtfully, "always that."

"Your target's gone by now," Schuldig said, and Aya gave him an unsurprised glance over the shoulder. A strange, lingering all-over.

"What the hell is this all about," Yohji growled at his partner.

"We need him," Schuldig answered instead. "That man is one of the funders of the experiments. Haven't you found out? Or been told?" He laughed, a small, mirthless sound. "I didn't fancy killing you. Or," he swung towards Aya, and a strange light entered his eyes, "this... thing."

Thing? Yohji did not like the way this was going.

"Have you wondered recently," Schuldig said, slowly closing the distance between him and Aya, but talking at Yohji, "what's fucking with his pretty head? Why," he gently laid his hands on Aya's shoulders, making him tilt back his head and open his mouth, "he's slowly going mad?"

Yohji watched as Schuldig's lips closed over Aya's in a deep, hollow-cheeked kiss. Aya's adam's apple jumped, the other man's hand scooted down his back to the small of it, fingers pressing tenderly until Aya turned and pressed himself against Schuldig who deepened the kiss even more.

They were screwing with their tongues, Yohji could see that, but the surge of fury and fear inside him was washed away into the recesses of his consciousness by a wave of tangled emotions so strong it made him stumble back against the door with a thud. Heat, longing, anger, white-hot fury and passion, the desperate wish to drown out the pain inside by hurting the flesh that encased it, Aya cutting, blood, the reek of it overwhelming, his head spinning in a maelstrom of mist...

Schuldig broke away reluctantly and met Yohji's eyes. "You did that to him. You can mend it."

Fuck your mindgames. That was your stuff, not Aya's!

"How would you know?" Schuldig said, his voice floating coolly in the dusky room. "I can't tell where he ends and I begin, I couldn't say what he felt and what I did, so how could you?"

"'Cos I... know..." Yohji faltered as he met Aya's eyes.

Schuldig let go of him and cocked his head. "You KNOW? You... like? You love?"

Yohji bit his lip.

"Who do you love, Yohji?" the voice murmured. "Your team mate? Your life? Your lover?"

"What are you getting at, Schuldig?" Yohji rasped, trying to remain calm.

"I want you to leave us alone. We have no issues with one another. We're doing our job, trying to survive, no better or worse than you. And I'm telling you this only once, Balinese: we've been through your worst nightmares, we were broken and have mended somehow, and we're going to make it no matter what."

A blazing flash of pain speared through Yohji's brain, and his hands flew up to press hard against his temples.

Schuldig smiled. "See? How about living with this every waking moment of your shitty life? Or," he leaned against Aya and blew a kiss on the top of the red head, "have him live with it? I only loosened his mind up a little. Had no time for more 'cos he was breaking ad I had to give him back to you. Sadly, you'd need some kind of training to bring up your shields against... well, too much of everything. Too much of life – noise, smell, touch, light, colours... So much that you need stillness more than anything. And there's only one kind of-"

"Shut up," Yohji croaked. "I gettit."

"Your redhead here is a sweet little psycho," Schuldig said softly, his eyes glittering knowingly at Yohji. "He likes pain. He likes being fought to the hilt so he can have what he craves, without guilt."

"You're sick."

"Yeah," Schuldig agreed, "me, and Crawford, and poor old Farfarello, and our little Nagi – you have no fucking idea, I haven't even shown you the faintest sliver of it yet. And if you didn't like the taste of what I gave you earlier, don't mess with us. Leave us alone. I want us to get better, to get away-"

Oops, Yohji's brain registered.

Schuldig's eyes widened in shock for a split second, before they glazed over with cold again. "Now, get out. Cherish what you've got while you have it." He gave Aya a rough push. "And you, idiot."

With that, he stalked past a stunned Yohji and left without another glance.

**xxx**

Nagi sat still by the window in Schuldig's room. His small shape rigid and almost drowning in the huge armchair Schuldig had shoved across so Nagi could look outside, the boy held his hands meekly folded in his lap, and his face was still like a lake in winter.

Schuldig slouched on his bed, reading and watching the boy. He should be playing, laughing, or at least crying if he felt like it, it crossed his mind, and bitterness spilled onto his tongue. How familiar. None of them had shed a tear since they had been spewed out by Rosenkreuz. Robbed of many things for the sake of heightening one, or rather, the layers of what made their selves had been peeled, scraped, ripped away, to leave their minds naked, skinned and bleeding, squirming at the slightest touch. Dysfunctional and lost, they had been cut off from all support and shoved into this world of too much of everything that at best regarded them as freaks, and at worst hunted them like rabid dogs.

Crawford had formed the words Schuldig hated to hear, and which Farfarello and Nagi would never have to listen to. Crawford had also refused to give them up to their fate. He was not one to yield, and Schuldig had begun to feed off this iron will. Not to give up. Claw back into life, rip into it and tear back those bits of it that belonged to them by rights. Ease the burden Farfarello and the boy had to carry without even knowing why and how. Two kinds of innocence, both dark, terrified and terrifying...

He could sense the stillness in the boy, and wondered again whether there was anything left beneath its smothering blanket, anything real, anything alive. Like the banked glow he could sense deep inside Crawford's harshly controlled mind, or his own erratic heat, or the raging wildfire that ripped through Farfarello, burning him up alive. One tiny spark, he prayed, pleaded with no one in particular, only to sigh and try to focus on his book again.

Nagi turned his head and met his eyes. "I want to go outside. Will you come with me?"

They went, side by side, into the summer-lush park. Schuldig registered something much like sadness radiating from the boy, mingling with a resigned kind of contentment. Nagi wandered along the gravelled pathways, his thin fingers sliding over roses and foliage, his small nose quivering as he soaked up the heady aroma of rain-soaked soil and blossoms. And Schuldig sensed relief, his own this time, wash over him in a soft wave, and could not help but let it touch Nagi's mind as well.

"Yes, I am," Nagi said quietly.

Alive. They were still alive. All of them.

And Schuldig vowed that he would do his damnedst to keep it this way.

**xxx**

Irritably, Manx puffed a mouthful of smoke at the telephone receiver she pressed to her ear. "Listen," she said, voice cut-glass and chill, "you better go and check on your boys. We have no issues with you as yet, and it would be better for all parties if we kept it this way. The target? Well, let's say we misjudged. It won't happen again, provided you'd be a bit more willing to co-operate – what? No, fine, I will drop this. But I want my team intact, and if you appreciate your boys in one piece, and," a sly smile crept over her face, "if you want to keep them, you better go and check on their state of mind."

She nodded, then replaced the receiver and met Persia's calculating glance. "Sorted?" he asked, tapping two cigarettes out of a packet on his desk, allowing her to take one and offering her a light.

"Difficult to tell," she said, leaning back in her chair to thoughtfully watch the smoke rise to the panelled ceiling of his office. "But the Elders are bright enough to understand that if Schwarz and Weiss joined up, we'd all be in deep shit."

He raised his eyebrows. "Your language, dear."

She quirked a grin. "Deteriorating, huh?"

"Like our relationship..." A slow smile played around his lips. "A series of marred moments, of broken promises?"

Her face darkened, and for a moment, she sat still, eyes wide and vacant, before she heaved a deep, determined breath and met his gaze with a wistful smile to match his own. "Perhaps more like a string of impossible opportunities. Who knows." She rose to her feet and turned to leave. "I'll be around when you need me."

**xxx**

**On to next chapter: Grey Morning**


	9. Chapter 9 Grey Morning

**Grey Morning – Yohji and Omi**

Yohji and Omi wandered along a small canal that separated the busy road from the park near their apartment block. The morning had risen surprisingly cool, with gusts of wind and rain occasionally lashing the trees and the overlong grass of this little-cared for area. Omi had dug his hands into the pockets of his wadded parka and Yohji shivered in his too-light jacket – no, summer did not last just because Yohji decided it should.

They had debriefed after returning from the party mission at the Takatori mansion, and it had easily been one of the most uncomfortable sessions Yohji could remember. When Aya had predictably retreated to his room, Omi asked Yohji to accompany him for a walk, while Ken appeared rather unsurprised that he had been assigned kitchen duties again.

To keep an eye on Aya?

Yohji was half-way through his second pack of cigarettes since their return in the small hours of that night. He had hardly slept, though Aya was out cold in a matter of moments as soon as he hit the futon, and in all likelihood back to sleep now. He did not know what to say to Omi who walked by his side in silence, head down, shoulders drawn up, his tousled hair dark with dampness and ruffled by the chill wind.

Silence sucks, Yohji thought, and around a breath of smoke, he said, "So what's up, chibi? I'm quite knackered too, yanno, and-"

Omi lifted his chin out of the high collar of the parka. His gaze silenced Yohji as effectively as a gag. Ice and steel met and pinned him, and Yohji realised that this was someone he did not know yet.

Omi walked another step when Yohji froze to the spot, before turning to face him again. "That mission," he said quietly, "was a disaster."

Yohji had nothing to add. They had been over this in the morning. No one had blown a fuse, not even Aya who admitted with a blank face to having seen Schuldig since the ordeal he had endured at the hands of Schwarz. As to why, he only had a shrug for an answer. Ken had been unreadable, and Omi merely sat down and completed the mission report. A short one. Short reports were bad reports, Yohji mused uneasily as he tried to figure out what had happened to the chibi who had shed anything chibilike right now.

"I had to evaluate it in the light of the recent difficulties within our team," Omi continued, his steelblue gaze firmly on Yohji, "and had to conclude that this is becoming unworkable. Fast."

Yohji felt his breath shorten. Figured, he thought, here he had a timely reminder who was in fact leading them. Omi was not exactly pulling rank on them, and sometimes he was just the frail, nervous nineteen year old he should have been in a normal sort of life, but not now. "Hey, chi-" Yohji swallowed, and began again, "Omi-kun, we've had trouble before, ne? It's the nature of the beast, I'd say, and we're all a bit high-strung right now, aren't we?"

"Don't try and placate me, Yohji-san," Omi replied rather stiffly, his face darkening by another shade of unhappiness. He paused to reach into the chest pocket of his parka and pull out his own packet of cigarettes – another novelty, Yohji noted, normally Omi would scrounge the few fags he needed from either him or Ken. He lit one and gulped down a deep lungful of smoke, before he let it slowly stream out of his mouth. "I decided, after some deliberation with our handlers, to request a full psychological re-evaluation of our team."

A wave of thick silence swallowed the sounds of life around Yohji. It crashed over him and sucked him down, only to throw him back up, high and heavy, before he came plunging down, and the noise of the Tokyo rush hour beyond the belt of trees flooded over him again. His hand was shaking as he lifted it for another drag at his almost finished cigarette, then he wiped his brow with the back of his hand and tried to smile. He failed before those steady blue eyes.

Unlike Aya, Omi kept his expression open, and Yohji read many things in Omi's gaze that scrutinised him as though they had just met for the first time. Compassion, yes. Sadness, too, and a good dose of anger. But what hurt him most was the disappointment beyond all this, the resignation, and the determination to stick by his decision. "What if... I mean, Aya is not in a good shape," Yohji managed.

Omi nodded. "I think we all gathered that. Personally, I think he's completely fucked up right now. He's lost it, Yotan, and we need to be able to depend on one another, ne? After last night, would you still want to do this? And if so, could you swear to me that Ken and myself would still be safe to do so?"

"But he hasn't hidden it," Yohji tried to reason.

"He hasn't asked for help either." Omi's face hardened. "And he has fought it tooth and nail where it was offered."

"Perhaps it wasn't the right kind of help," Yohji said, a heaviness in his chest that was not from the cigarettes or the smog or the cold, damp air of the would-be summer morning.

"The re-evaluation should be able to establish this."

A long silence fell. Yohji dumped the finished stub onto the wet, muddy ground and unthinkingly lit another cigarette. Smoking too much, will show up in report, black marks on your fucking record, it rattled through his mind, and stuff that, Aya doesn't smoke, only gets pissed once in a blue moon, and what if he doesn't pass? What if he fails the bloody test? He will fail, as sure as Hell, if they test him sometime soon, he'll crash their stupid machines and plunge further than they've ever dreamed someone could fall...

"But we were matched," Yohji croaked out, "like a jigsaw, every piece must fit..."

"No one is irreplaceable," Omi replied, his tone softer than before, laced with a sadness that had no words. "We were matched well when we got together. People change, Yoji-san, and perhaps we need to take this step now, before someone gets seriously hurt." He coughed, threw his cigarette away and ground it down with his heel, an expression of disgust and despair on his young face. He rolled his shoulders and strained his neck – tense, Yohji thought, so very tense, just like that hideous crossbow he favours – before he stepped closer and stretched out his hand to touch Yohji's arm.

His eyes were wide and hard, his lips white, and Yohji realised that he looked tired enough to faint on the spot. Ay, chibi, he thought painfully, what the hell is going on with us all?

"Yohji?" Yohji closed his eyes. The grip on his arm tightened. "Yohji, talk to him. Bring him to his damn senses. Shake him up, for Chrissake."

"Maybe... we should just walk out?"

Omi blanched and let his hand drop. "No one walks from Kritiker, you know that. I won't let you. I don't want to pay Aya's bill, neither should Ken, or you. You know the rules – you do the disappearing act, and the entire team will be eliminated."

"Didn't happen when I..." Yohji's voice trailed off, and his eyes widened when they met Omi's. "You never told them?"

Omi bit his lip. "I treated it as a solo mission 'cos I knew you'd return."

The chibi was full of surprises, Yohji thought breathlessly, and these were not of the pleasant kind. "Who tells you Aya wouldn't?"

"My guts?" came the sharp retort. "This is different. This is about broken trust. If you and Aya walk, you'll be hunted down like pests, and we'll be the first ones after your sorry ass." And suddenly, despair flooded his features. "Don't make me, Yohji, please, for everything you hold dear if there's anything like that. Please."

Yohji was reeling, staggering under this onslaught, and he felt his very self give way, a carefully crafted shell coming apart at the seams, with nothing to replace it and nothing inside.

Omi wiped his eyes, a way too grown up gesture of exhaustion, before fixing his gaze on Yohji again. Yohji who gaped at him in utter disbelief, pain and confusion written over his face, along with a bitterness beyond words. Ram it home now, before those soft green eyes take you down, steal your edge, slow your momentum. Better to break this stupid belief in good endings right here. Wasn't this what they had taught him? "You know what has to be done if he fails."

"Omi," Yohji all but breathed, "please..."

"I want you to do it. You do it, Yohji, 'cos anyone else might take pleasure in zapping him off. I don't want this. I don't want anyone to gloat, or tear him apart. You can make it swift..." His eyes did fill up now, his voice began to crack, but he stared and carried on, without wiping his face again, without slowing down. "I've asked them to do the assessment as soon as possible."

"But... no time," Yohji whispered, his lips numb, and feeling as though he had received a blow to the heart. The chibi was dead, had died sometime during those months he had been focused on himself and Aya's predicament, during their many fights and arguments, and they had not noticed. Had overlooked Omi's plea, his impossible attempt to try and be a normal nineteen year old while leading a team of professional killers. The narrowest shoulders had carried the greatest load, and they had not been helping because they had been too busy with their own caprices. They had been his shining examples, the only anchors he had, and they had cast him adrift.

So the chibi had died, and it hit Yohji all at once: regret, sorrow, helpless anger... a slow, agonising death it would have been, and perhaps Ken had been the only one to notice. Now it came back to haunt them.

"Will-" Omi broke off, turned away for a heartbeat before facing Yohji again, his face no longer composed but a mirror of pain. "Will you do it?"

Silence. Yohji did not trust himself to speak, with those desperate eyes on him.

Omi sucked in a deep breath. "If not, I'll have to... I'll..." He did not finish but bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

The silence echoed with the hollow sounds of birdsong and cars, the ghostly chatter of life on the outside. Outside of their world of shadows and blood, close, but unreachable however hard they tried. Life filtered through the miasma of murder and guilt, discoloured and drained of strength. Life was not for them. He should have known.

He should have known.

"Yohji?" Omi's tousled head against his neck, for a hot, close sob before the boy pushed away and turned, his steps harsh on the gravel, his slender shape closed and dark. "Talk to him," he said over his shoulder.

As though your own life was on the line.

Talk to Aya, the easy part.

Get him to listen.

Impossible.

**xxx**

**On to next chapter: The Bright Side**


	10. Chapter 10 The Bright Side

**The Bright Side – Yohji and Schuldig,** **Omi and Ken**

Schuldig found him.

Schuldig always found what he was seeking.

He sat down next to Yohji on the bench overlooking the small lake in the centre of the park, and for a long time, they were watching the rippling water that mirrored the lazy grey of the rainy day, the swans that sailed serenely over the dark surface, and the dimples the rain showered onto the water.

"What's crossed you, Yohji?" Schuldig finally broke the stillness between them.

Yohji dug for his cigarettes, found the pack empty, and accepted a smoke from Schuldig who offered it even before Yohji had begun his search.

"What did you really do to him?" Yohji asked, without taking his gaze off the lake.

Schuldig leaned against him, an easy gesture, almost friendly. "Show him we understand?"

"Rubbish." Yohji did not shrug him off.

"You're in trouble, hm?" Schuldig rested his chin on Yohji's shoulder. Two friends together by the lakeside, having a good chat.

Things that could have been, something whispered in his mind. Yohji felt borderline hysteria waver at the edges of his reason and clamped down on it with self-loathing.

"You are in shit so deep it's pouring outta your ears, Yotan."

Yohji drew up his shoulders, only to feel an arm wrap round his waist and hold him in place. It felt strangely comforting. Schuldig's touch was light, non-possessive yet assured. Long copper strands blew softly against Yohji's cheek, and he caught Schuldig's scent, a mixture of spice and sandal, and something that made Yohji's skin crawl. Blood?

"You think we put him into this state?" The copper head turned a little, a blue eye glinted up at Yohji, traces of laughter deep within. Laughter without mirth. "Your precious redhead who blew last night's assignment in such a grandiously cheap way?"

Yohji tensed, and Schuldig let go of him to lean back, folding his hands in his lap. Yohji felt bereft. Schuldig studied him. "He asked for it, Yotan. He sliced himself, he was howling for more, and we only gave him what he wanted because you wouldn't."

"Cut him? Tear him?" Yohji tore himself away from the tranquil vista and got up to glare down at Schuldig who blinked once and then gave him a vague smile.

"Whatever. He's closer to our minds than the rest of you."

"You mean you fucked with his brain? Got him stark raving mad? Why d'you not just finish him off?"

A ripple ran through Schuldig like a breeze across still water. "'Cos there was no need. 'Cos I miscalculated, didn't think he'd crack so thoroughly, so quickly. Hell, man, we've been living with it for years, so you'll have to excuse a little slip. His mind was messed up before I laid mine over it, and it's all to do with you, Yotan."

"I don't understand," Yohji murmured, suddenly deflated. He felt cold, and he recognised the shivers that made his skin crawl as the first unwelcome signs of shock.

Schuldig – damn him for nothing escaped his hyper-susceptible senses – rose and offered him his jacket. "C'mon, take the damn thing, they're not going to nab you for this, huh?"

"What do you want?" Yohji said, stiffening as he felt the jacket being draped around his shoulders. Schuldig stood behind him, radiating warmth and danger and something else Yohji could not quite pinpoint in his exhausted state.

"Nothing. You wanted to meet me," Schuldig shrugged, and Yohji felt fingers play with strands of his hair, coil up a few locks and let them spring free again, tickling against the side of his neck. "I sensed it. Even so, logic should dictate... we're in the same line of work, ne? Same old thing, different colour, big deal, same rules. He's unstable, they wanna get rid of him; you fuck him, you wanna keep him."

Before Yohji could tell him to get the hell outta here, Schuldig leaned fully against him. "You're way too soft for our trade," he murmured. "In your old age."

"So you wanna gloat?"

"Far be it from me."

A spark of sarcasm, a breath of smoke past Yohji's face. Damn, but Schuldig did feel warm. And close. And... well, stable. The madman glowed with calm; the normal had fallen into madness. What a shitty world. "Why would you..."

"Let's say, I'm hedging my bets. Perhaps, at heart, our masters are not that different, hm? And we're only glorified street rabble. They pick us up, scrub us clean, strip us bare, and when they're done with us, they chuck us out like so many cheap whores." He laughed, without bitterness. "Well, fine by me while it works. But one day, it might not, and I don't like the chucking out bit, so I thought if we help you out a little, we might be able to call in a favour later. Watcha think, huh?"

Yohji said nothing. Schuldig dug his sharp chin into Yohji's shoulder. "C'mon, Yotan, spit it out, I haven't all day, and I wanna hear you say it."

Fine. Why not. They worked for money, after all, they had no obligations, no alliances. He might as well call it a truce for now, albeit a very stealthy, private, selfish one. To save Aya. Yohji closed his eyes and said, "Can you do anything? Anything at all to... to help?"

"Ahhh," Schuldig breathed, moulding firmer against Yohji's back, though he kept his arms to himself now. "I think I can... at a cost."

"Wanna screw me?"

Schuldig laughed again, an almost sweet, comfortable sound. "Why not, now that you offer? Look at the bright side, Yotan: I might give you some comfort, and you'll give some to me. One night, hm? Don't wanna be greedy... or get Farfarello jealous."

Or Crawford, or make life even harder for poor Nagi, Yohji picked up and was stunned. Those shreds of Schuldig's mind unsettled him, but for now they did not matter.

Nothing mattered except Aya.

Who was offered a chance by their enemy.

"How will you know..."

Schuldig gently brushed dark golden hair from Yohji's ear and put his warm lips to Yohji's clammy skin. "I will."

"How can you guarantee-"

"No guarantees in life, Yotan. You'll just have to believe me. C'mon, my car's nearby. Let's go for a nice drive and find a place for the night."

**xxx**

"What?" Manx shook her head while she listened intently to the voice from her mobile phone. "No, Bali dear, there's no way to postpone the re-evaluation. No. I can't, I don't want to, and I won't. He's nuts, and you know it. We've pumped too much time and money into you bloody lot... what? Why should I even think about re-considering? You're obviously trying to deal with me behind the back of your team leader, and you're damn lucky that I don't want the whole stupid lot of you to go down."

She listened for a while, before she said, sharper than before, "So full of compassion, are we, Balinese? Perhaps Neu could have done with a fraction of it instead of this redhaired asshole. Hm? You've learned a lesson? Good grief, you're a hard learner. Doesn't help her a big deal now, does it? Better late than never?" She paused, wiped her face, and bit her lip. "No," she then said, her voice calmed and smooth. "Here's your next lesson, Bali: sometimes, there's no 'late', only 'never'. I take it you will talk to your team leader. Convince him, and he might convince me to delay the whole exercise. Have a good day."

**xxx**

Omi stared at the bundle of oily rags in his lap. The television flickered without sound; newsflashes interspersed with sublime messaging that he had been trained to pick up. He did not need to watch anymore. He now had to clean the gun he hardly ever used, check it over, and load it. He had received the re-evaluation report during the night. It had confirmed Ken and himself and recommended an extended refresher course, read brainwash, for Yohji.

Aya had failed.

Without a single redeeming point on any of his scores.

Yohji had disappeared.

And Omi felt only black emptiness as he began to prepare the gun.

**xxx**

Next chapter: Decisions, Decisions - Crawford and Schuldig, Yohji and Schuldig, Omi and Ken 


	11. Chapter 11 Decisions, Decisions

Right, another update. Let me know what you think, folks - it's a lot of writing with no feedback.

Cheers  
LoveyouHateyou

**xxx**

**Decisions, Decisions – Crawford and Schuldig, Schuldig and Nagi, Yohji and Schuldig**

"So?" Crawford pressed both hands against his temples, then remembered Schuldig who stood in the doorway to the office. Smoking, of course – he had not stopped those last few days. "You'll give yourself lung cancer."

A vague smile played over the pale face as Schuldig regarded Crawford with as much softness as his eyes were capable of. "Your headache no better?"

"I have no headache..." Crawford snapped, then sighed and turned to face Schuldig. Eyes hidden behind the sparkle of eyeglasses, face carefully blanked, mind safely shielded. He had always been closed up, safe and firm as a rock. "I have a damn splitting migraine, so you better spit out what's up, or I can't guarantee I won't be screaming at you in a moment."

"He's taken the bait," Schuldig shrugged. "Had no choice, I suppose. Fine plan, Craw, I'll hand you that."

"Where did you take him?"

"To the beach. Just walking, listening to the waves, that sorta thing." A faint blush tainted Schuldig's pale face, followed by an angry frown.

"Ah. All night long?"

"Well, no. Coupla hours, then I drove him back. He was awfully quiet."

"Upset. Out of his mind. Did he understand what you asked? Schuldig, talk, or I'll rip it right out of your brains."

Schuldig threw up his hands. "Hey, gimme time! He did, he's bright, and you made it nice 'n easy for him. No betrayal, no hardship... We only want him to get those Kritiker files for us. They're about us, after all."

"He'll be useless after this," Crawford observed dryly. He pressed the tips of his fingers against his forehead and allowed a small sigh of discomfort to slip his lips. "He knows."

Schuldig shrugged and raked absentmindedly through his bright hair. "Figures. So what?"

Crawford let his fingers wander and began to rub his temples in slow motion circles, the light on the glasses sliding, revealing half-closed dark eyes, misted over with a faraway expression that did not match his set features. "Hm?"

"We're not so different, huh?"

Crawford did not answer.

Schuldig bit his lip. "How long now, Craw?"

"I don't know," Crawford stated quietly, words clipped, not inviting debate. "But we'll be ready to fly when the time comes."

Ready for the flight of their lives...

Craw... crow... fly, Schuldig mused lazily. Crawford really had this thing... those sharp, dark looks; knowing eyes that seemed to pierce right through everything they choose to scrutinise, the silent sweep of a hard, cold mind that right now prodded at him, probing, warning. I'm fine, he reassured, just so...

Nagi's small shape appeared behind Schuldig; his large eyes straying from one to the other, but he did not ask anything. "I can't stare at those books any longer," he stated flatly, "I'm getting dizzy. Schu, I'd like to walk in the park for a while?"

**xxx**

Nagi and his walks, Schuldig thought while he strolled along the busy street. Rushhour was a good time to go about iffy business; in the throng of people, all absorbed in their own small worlds, few would bat an eyelid at the lanky redhead with the longnosed face. He had spent most of the day following the boy around, watching him for any signs of emotion, or perhaps a slight shade of it.

He got nothing. Nagi was still, his frosty little face closed, his eyes looking inward, his mind firmly closed to Schuldig's cautious touch. Schuldig had watched the boy on many such walks: he would stuff his thin white hands into the pockets of his coat and just pace along evenly, his breathing no faster than usual, eyes unblinking. Like a walking corpse. Schuldig shuddered and almost sighed with relief when he reached the apartment block where after that drive into the night Yohji had agreed to meet him.

Ah, yes, that drive...

**xxx**

Yohji had expected a lot of things from Schuldig when he agreed to the deal. Some cruel little psycho play, perhaps, or some bodily torture, involving Farfarello's skilled hands. He had also registered how the redhead regarded him with curious, calculating glances, and had sensed the wish to touch.

Red. Touch, warm, longing, firm. Aya.

Schuldig had not bothered to check him over for weapons. Perhaps he was sure of himself, or of the strange exchange of favours they had brokered. Yohji had assumed his body would be the price for Schuldig's help, whichever form this help would take. He did not know, Schuldig did not explain, and Yohji did not want to ask. Images of Omi and Ken kept invading his thoughts, unbidden and painful, and pictures of Aya.

Always Aya.

He had tried to talk to him in the run-up to the evaluation. Gods, he had tried. He leaned back in the seat of the car and closed his eyes, heedless of Schuldig's observant eyes that kept flicking between the road and him.

He could hear and smell the sea long before the car rolled over firmed sand and the engine cut out. He refused to open his eyes, but a cigarette was pushed between his lips and something warm and moist touched his cheek. "Hey," Schuldig murmured, "you're not fooling me."

Yohji opened his eyes even as he pulled a deep breath of smoke into his lungs. Schuldig's face was close, noses almost touching, cool eyes glittering in the vague darkness. They were still within the dusky orange smog bowl of the city, but the waves that kept rolling out on the sandy beach shimmered silver and black. A soft, cool breeze played with their hair, weaving a few wildly red strands into burnished gold. Unthinkingly, Yohji lifted his hand to wipe them away.

Schuldig had soft hair, fine and pliant, unlike Aya's thick, wiry mane. It smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and coffee.

Touch. How long had Aya starved him of it? In spite of himself, Yohji felt something inside of him give. He loathed it. He hated Schuldig just sitting so close, as though he was expecting something, and wrapping him into his seething cold-warmth without as much as laying a hand on him. "Foreplay?" Yohji asked bluntly, to break the odd mood.

Schuldig plopped back into his own seat, lit a cigarette for himself and crossed his arms behind his head. Smoking calmly, he stared up at the sky. "You ever seen a star up there?"

And Yohji thought he was surely going mad.

**xxx**

Schuldig did not want anything from him that night, and it confused Yohji no end. Talk, or don't, the redhead had told him, I'll listen. I'll tell you some things too. About us, Schwarz. We want you to understand...

He had heard about pain of the mind, but he had never thought it could be cast in flesh. Schuldig's sparse words, without pathos or self-pity, taught him otherwise. Schwarz were the mould into which this kind of pain had been poured by Eszet. To see what could be formed out of agony, of the mind without barriers, suspended in life while longing to die.

And when Schuldig had driven him home, in silence, Yohji had lost his sense of time and place.

He longed to find his anchor. He longed for Aya as he had been before Schwarz.

**xxx**

"Aya?" In the stark dawn of the room, Yohji – kneeling by the futon – hovered over the restful form under the sheets. "Aya, let me join you..."

"If you must," came the calm reply.

The scent of pine needles and fresh linen washed over Yohji as he shed his clothes bar his shorts and slipped beneath the covers. Aya lay on his stomach, face turned away, hands lightly curled, legs apart. A relaxed, peaceful pose, Yohji mused when he fidgeted to wrap some of the bedding around himself, and turned onto his side. He touched his cheek to Aya's shoulder to soak up the aroma of the pale skin, and realised it was cool and damp. He longed to infuse it with some of his own warmth, but Aya radiated forbidding resentment. "Why don't you talk to me?"

"Because there's nothing to talk about, Kudoh."

"What about this re-evaluation," Yohji prodded stubbornly. "Omi hasn't had the results back yet, perhaps... I mean..." He faltered. What could he say now, that he believed Aya would not make it, that it had been an awful long time for their evaluation reports to be filched through by the shrinks and strategists at Kritiker, he felt as though he was disintegrating, utterly uncapable to form coherent thoughts, and he was hearing voices in his head. He swallowed the urge to light a cigarette. "Perhaps you're just a bit off-balance."

"You mean iffy, mad, something like that?" Aya's dark voice did not waver. "Schuldig is mad. I am normal. I have no problems, and I don't need all this shit about soul searching and listening."

"Then what were you doing while Schwarz had you?" Yohji bit out.

Silence fell. It grew deep and thick, drifting over them like snowfall in winter, in cold, fluffy flakes, a blanket for a corpse, a splash of crimson jarring on pure white-

Eyes flying open, Yohji sat bolt upright with a rattling gasp for air.

"Quit smoking, Kudoh," Aya commented without stirring. "And let me the hell sleep now."

Yohji could not sleep. He watched Aya drop off, listened to his deepening breathing, and finally was not able to bear it any longer. He rose and got dressed, slipped out of the building unseen and unheard, his hand in his pocket with the harigane. The shadow by the door was still and swift, stifling any sound with a firm hand across Yohji's mouth, and quicker than reflex, Yohji heard a whisper, "Hey, it's me."

Schuldig and his uncanny speed. Tense and pained, Yohji stilled for a moment. Red hair drifted across his throat, tickled his cheek, and then he felt a soft, moist touch to his neck. The same kind of touch as on the beach. A kiss?

"Couldn't sleep," Schuldig said flatly, releasing Yohji from his grip. "Hardly ever can. Thought you might fancy a walk."

It was a hot night, the city restless and flooded with too much light, too much bustle even at this hour. Yohji heard his own voice before his brain could kick in to stop him. "You got your car?"

Schuldig smiled and dangled a set of keys from a bony finger. "Your turn this time."

The car was parked around the corner. Yohji waited for Schuldig to settle on the passenger seat. Before he could reach for his own cigarettes, Schuldig shoved one – lit – between his lips and took another one for himself.

The filter tasted of coffee and mint. The smile on Schuldig's face startled Yohji for it had nothing of his usual smirk; instead, it seemed strangely open and a bit wistful. He concentrated on turning the key in the ignition, moving the car into the sparser night hour traffic, and only then realised he was heading into the same direction Schuldig had taken before. "Beach?" he murmured over the hum of the engine.

Schuldig wound back his seat, propped his booted feet onto the dashboard, and let his eyes slide shut. "You must be reading my mind."

And while Yohji headed for the periphery, he thought it extremely weird that Schuldig did not sound as though he was joking.

**xxx**

Omi slowly dissected the gun. He arrayed the parts neatly on the cloth that he had spread onto the table. His eyes were dark, his teeth buried in his lower lip, his hands unwavering. Words echoed faintly in his mind – _Aya, I need someone to give me a lift, yeah, one of the guys gonna help me cramming for that exam – you really should be more careful, chibi, that's a shitty place, how do you know he's ok, I'll drive, wanna have a look by myself._

Sorted. They would drive to one of the worst areas of the city, pass the semi-ruined place that still had so-called apartments in it, a dirty heap of concrete boxes stacked in an untidy hive, he would ask for a stop to pee, of course Aya would not let him go out on his own. _Bang._

Omi jumped, then realised the door had fallen shut with a soft click. He spread a newspaper over the parts of the gun and turned slightly to see Ken shrugging out of his jacket and kicking off his shoes. "Hey, Omichi," he said softly, padding across. He had a bag of crisps in his hand and proffered it to Omi while reaching for the paper.

Omi clamped his fingers round Ken's wrist, met hazel eyes going round and managed something he hoped would look like a smile. "For me?" He nodded at the crisps, rising to his feet and dragging Ken along into the kitchen. "Cool. Let's make some coffee... I think I need to unwind a bit more, you startled the hell outta me just now."

"Oh." Ken looked relieved as he set about pouring some ground coffee into the machine. "Any news from the big K? Feedback on how fucked up they think we are?"

Omi bent to retrieve two mugs. "No." An easy lie. Easier than the truth.

"Man, they're taking their sweet time." Ken set the machine going and turned, the wry smile on his face falling away as he scooted down to Omi who sat in front of the open cupboard. He had drawn his legs up and hugged his knees with one arm, his face buried in the other hand. "Omi?" Ken knelt and reached out to gather him up.

"Don't."

Ken stilled mid motion, hands close but not touching.

"I'll be fine. Just need a moment." Omi's voice was small and hollow. It did not waver, it did not crack, and its stillness touched Ken coldly. "I'm just tired, that's all." He shifted a little, slivers of blue gleaming from beneath tousled blond. "Seen Yohji?"

Ken let his hands drop to his thighs. "No. Gone on one of his forays, I'd say."

Omi let out a slow, shallow breath and scrambled to his feet. "I wanna go to bed. Care to come with me?"

**xxx**

The wind streaked through Yohji's hair as Schuldig and he sat down on a piece of driftwood by the beach. "I don't understand what you want, Schwarz."

"Talk. Can't you imagine that? Wanna rattle your neat facade a bit and see how long it takes me to crack it for good."

"You won't."

Schuldig smiled. "So sure of yourself, Bali? Yet the only reason you're willing to listen now is this knife-wielding fool... a bit like our very own Farfarello, don't you think? They had some sort of understanding, those two..."

"Is that all? If I remember this right, you had plans with me."

"I don't want you like this. I have-" He broke off, drew a harsh breath, and lit a cigarette. Yohji watched, professional interest and something unidentifiable in his cool, knowing eyes, even now that he was on edge like never before. Schuldig could see it, sense it, though Yohji held himself rather well. "We got better things to do than zapping you off. Wonder what happened back then? Why he ran right into us?"

Yohji felt cold. He could see that Schuldig was shivering slightly, too. "Why?"

"Because he was sent. On his own, without backup, orders by someone at your end. Someone shoved him right into our arms to lever you outta hiding and back to where you belong. We were paid to do a job, and we did it. Bring you home, Kudoh. Whoever did it was longing for you too much to leave you well enough alone."

"Bonkers." Kritiker did not work like this. Kritiker agents could be discharged if they applied for it and had a clean record. Right? He had applied and been set free, leaving Weiss one man short.

And another one shaken.

Suddenly, Yohji felt cold. What if… had they been this obvious? Had Aya been right all along, saying they needed to be discreet, to not allow themselves to become such easy prey? If Schuldig was right – and surely he was lying, playing one of his weird games – but if he was right, who would do such a thing? Why not simply replace him, as had happened in other teams when someone left or died?

Because it would not have put Aya right. _Hey, set that thought aside for a moment before it sends you into overdrive. _But they could have replaced Aya, too, Yohji's ingrained instinct for spinning a yarn of possible permutations rambled on. Something was off about Aya. Something that prompted Kritiker to take extreme measures.

"You realise your team was down while you were gone?" Schuldig talked into the wind, to the waves that rolled out on the sand, into some timeless void. "Low key missions only, nothing to rock the planet, until you came back. We could not help but wonder and do a bit of our own research. Had a sneek-peek into some rather messed-up heads." He snorted in wry amusement. "Man, I thought we were fucked up but I think Farfarello's more sane than the four of you put together."

"What would you know," Yohji murmured. Right, Kudoh, have a careful look now: Aya's sore points, his wants, in order of importance were his sister, his revenge… or maybe the other way round. And for the looks of it, Yohji. Perhaps. Include it just in case, better than to miss out a possibility, right? Kritiker's point was apparently to keep him on board no matter what. Why? They did not kick up a fuss when Yohji applied to leave, so when exactly – ah, right, when Aya had become unstable. Aya, just in case Schuldig had a point, had been sent onto a solo mission. This was not normal procedure. Persia was the one to work out the missions, Manx came through Omi for the briefings, and the chibi decided…

Yohji sucked in a startled breath of smoke as it hit him. Omi suggested whom to include on the mission team. Omi co-ordinated their work, their payments, their supplies, and to some extent, their staffing.

No, Schuldig was telling a pack of lies. Kritiker could easily find another sword-wielding killer for their team, someone with a grudge against Takatori and a thirst for revenge – he had trodden enough sensitive toes to make the pool of potential candidates a large one. Just why would they go to such lengths about Aya? They even took care of his sister.

They had his sister. They had Yohji. They so had Aya.

Schuldig laughed, a soft, quick rasp. "You're right; I know nothing. Can I lean against you? Just for a moment?"

Too shocked to answer, Yohji sat still as Schuldig shifted closer, touching leg to leg, arm to arm, shoulder to shoulder. A light, warm contact, unlike Aya's unyielding grasp.

In the East, the sky grew paler.

Yohji did not know anymore where to go in the morning.

**xxx**

Next chapter:Judgement Day – Omi and Aya 


	12. Chapter 12 Judgement Day

Yohji gave Schuldig a sideways glance. The redhead was staring over the sea, strands of his long hair that was gathered in a loose ponytail playing about his face in the cool breeze of the rising morning. A surprisingly soft face when it was free of his usual unpleasant smirk, with a few freckles about his nose and scattered over his cheekbones that made him look very young. Schuldig was still a mystery to him, something a night of reluctant talking had not changed, and he was veering between wary surprise and deeply ingrained mistrust. The men of Schwarz were the enemy after all, weren't they?

So he had tried to close off his mind, but Schuldig had not tried to pry. He wore no weapon as far as Yohji could tell, his entire stance had been... open. Welcoming. Inviting even.

How Yohji wished for Aya to be here with him, just like this, like Schuldig was now...

He realised the fraction of a second too late that the pale face turned towards him, clear blue eyes pinning him sharply for a moment, before he could shutter his gaze and focus on the cigarette in his hands. His fingers trembled just so slightly. He could not fool Schuldig, of course, who suddenly reached out and touched his wrist. "Wish he were here?"

Damn him, he was way too lucid for Yohji's liking.

"I know the feeling."

Rubbish. How could he ever begin to understand when Aya did not...  
Unless he was pining – oh, where was this going, no way he would begin to sympathise, but who could Schuldig be hankering for? Somehow he did not seem the type to go after little boys like Nagi. But then, perhaps Nagi was not all that he seemed either, and Crawford, well – a formidable enemy as they had been made to feel to their cost. It might pay to find an arrangement that kept them out of each other's hair while neither Kritiker nor Esset seemed interested in coming to blows.

That warm, firm hand trailed up Yohji's arm, and he had to fight the sudden urge to lean into the touch – he was courting the enemy, after all; this would not do, Aya would kill him if he knew, and then perhaps that was what he wanted now – for Aya to slice his throat and let him drop into silence.

"Wonder how your youngest kitten is coping." Schuldig let his hand fall away and crossed his arms, gaze drifting into the distance again. A sliver of grey light gleamed on the horizon where the sky sank into the sea, and began to broaden, wash into the darkness of the passing night with the relentless rhythm of eternity.

Yohji wiped his eyes. Omi had been pleading with him, the boy had appeared to be cracking up but just when Yohji thought he would break, Omi had surprised him with a determination that seemed too much, too cold, too hard for someone so young. Omi would be fine.

"Who d'you think they'll get to do it?"

"Will you shut up already?" Yohji burst out before he could bite the words back.

"Someone from within," Schuldig mused, lighting another cigarette for himself, "would be easiest. A test of loyalty, to boot. Really handy. Perhaps they'd pick the most levelheaded guy, to make sure."

Yohji felt himself grow cold. Ken?

"Though, if I had to decide, I'd try something else." Schuldig slid down into the sand and leaned back against the stem of driftwood they had been perched on for most of the time. He wriggled and stretched taut muscles, raised his arms over his head and arched his back, bones crackling as tense tendons eased up, before he slumped back into a comfortable pose, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, one hand in his lap, the other one fiddling with the cigarette.

Something else? There were few options, then.

"Only one other option. Test the group leader. Push him to the limit. The team's unstable, it's the leader's fault and responsibility, ne? Sort him out, make him clear up the mess."

Yohji felt dizzy one of a sudden. Someone caught him and dragged him down to the sand. He felt Schuldig's arm slip round his waist and tug him close. "Man, Balinese, when d'you eat last time?" Schuldig slapped his brow. "This won't do, huh?"

Yohji stiffened and drew back, untangling Schuldig's arm from where it sat, snug and comforting. "Shut up. What were you getting at?"

"C'mon, you know. They'll get your chibi to do the dirty work. And that looney will either play along or fight back. They'll only need to watch to complete their assessment. I'd call it catch twenty two."

Yohji made to get up but Schuldig caught his wrist once again and held on fast. "Stay put. I told you we'll know when. We'll be in time, and I'll do my damnedst to help."

Cool eyes regarded Yohji who closed his to stop this strange, searching gaze to rummage around in his soul. He did not feel up to facing Schuldig now, he could not place him anymore, and it confused him no end. Schwarz were the enemy. They had done unspeakable things to Aya, and now they were the only hope he had to get help? A twisted smile crossed his face. Schuldig was playing a game, surely, and Yohji had not the faintest idea where this was going, but he had to admit that for now, just now, during those desperate hours between truth, betrayal and loss, his warm touch felt like the only anchor he had.

No. Aya, Omi, Ken. They were his anchors. Aya who would either die at Omi's hands or kill the boy. Ken who managed to stay himself in all this by taking as much care of the chibi as the boy would allow.

"I wanna go back now," Yohji broke his own reverie, tugged loose and rose to his feet. Schuldig got up too, moving with the poised elegance of a great cat. So very much like Aya. He followed Yohji who strode towards the car and climbed into the driver's seat even as the first finger of sunlight touched the choppy waves, painting a street of gold towards the beach.

Into the revving engine, Schuldig said, "You gotta harden up a bit more, Yotan." A mournful expression passed over his face before he replaced it with his usual smug grin. "Shoot off, man. Let's get some food."

Traffic was picking up fast the closer they came to the city. Slouching in his seat, Schuldig had crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, his head lolling slightly. Asleep, Yohji thought with a touch of relief, but when he had to hit the brakes because he found himself at the tail end of a queue at the exit he needed to take, Schuldig's soft voice floated into the humming of the engine and the noise of the traffic around them. "You remember your first kill?"

Yohji nearly crashed into the car in front.

"There aren't many ways you can go afterwards," Schuldig continued, posture unchanged, almost sleepy. "If you're made that way, you'll find nothing wrong. Carry on, or enjoy it. Your general prison populace, yanno." He paused, shifted a little, eyes still closed. The queue moved on. Yohji shivered and tried to keep concentrated on the traffic. "I can't say I regret... 'cos I can't remember whether I do. But if we were like that, we'd not think about it either, right? So we're trying to... I mean, find out what we were like before all this... I know Nagi did for some time, but he's given up now."

No, Yohji did not like this one bit. He refused to listen, but started when Schuldig pressed a hand over his eyes, a brief, harsh gesture, before sitting up straight and blinking out at the bustle of cars and traffic lights, the slightly pinched, distracted expression on his face quickly plastered over by his usual smug mask. "Move, Bali, there – that turn, and then the next left."

"That's not the right way to-" Yohji broke off when he caught the cool glance and did as asked.

They saw Nagi loiter at a corner of a derelict apartment building. This was a bad area, Yohji knew, and he had not known they would be coming here, but he had an idea that set his heart racing and shortened his breath. Without a word, he pulled up and let the boy slip into the rear seat. Nagi settled just as silently, not even exchanging a look with either of the two men. He seemed absorbed playing a handheld computer game, but his face betrayed neither thought nor emotion, his eyes were as blank as those of a corpse.

Yohji felt a shiver run down his spine. What had he let himself in for? He could not read those people at all, those masters of deception, mindscramblers, psychos who called themselves Schwarz. How fitting, for they were as dark as the night.

And he felt... comfortable. Schuldig had behaved himself. They boy was no match for Weiss, for all Yohji could tell, and they seemed just a little strange – well, odder than Weiss at least, which did mean nothing in their trade, really. Those things Schuldig had told him made Yohji curious, but right now, he tried to keep all of this out of his mind, and it was blown right out of his thoughts when Schuldig laid a hand on Yohji's thigh and murmured, "Pull in." Gesturing at the mouth of a basement parking lot of a high rise that looked as though it was about to crumble into a heap at any moment.

Nagi pocketed his game and looked up for the first time.  
His face was still. In his eyes pooled darkness.  
And Yohji knew he did not want Omi to become like this.

"Damn, Aya, I don't think I can keep it in any longer," Omi hissed with urgency through clenched teeth as he fidgeted on the passenger seat and pressed his hands between his thighs. The satchel with his tattered school books lay on the cluttered backseat, among empty drinks bottles, junk food wrappers and forgotten crisp packets. The gun rested hard and warm against his ribcage. He had caught glimpses of himself in the smudged passenger mirror – a pale pace with a sheen of sweat, eyes sunk deep into shadowy sockets, dry discoloured lips.

Like a damn corpse. He batted the thought down angrily, yet when he caught Aya's glance in the rear mirror, he nearly burst into tears. Aya's strange purplish blue eyes held no emotion bar a flicker of concern deep within, and Omi broke away hastily and reached for the crumpled packet of cigarettes he had flung onto the dashboard earlier on, only to toss it back with a breathless curse. Empty, now of all times.

"Yohji always checks his supply as though it were ammo," Aya remarked dryly and brought out a fresh, unopened packet from his denim jacket. "Here." He wrinkled his nose with the faintest hint of disgust. "Dependencies make you weak, chibi."

Was that why he was acting so odd? Had something scraped over a soft spot? But Aya had no soft spots, as far as Omi could see...

Aya focused on the road again. "Addictions, friends, weakness," he lectured, his tone subtly becoming more bitter, "they all drag you down, make you vulnerable. Bad for anyone, but for people like us, it's usually lethal." He pulled up by the gaping mouth of a basement garage, the same Schuldig, Nagi and Yohji had entered. "Here, take your piss. I'll watch your back, ne?"

He brought the car to a halt but did not cut the engine. Omi expected him to reach for the katana that also lay on the backseat, but Aya just sat there, waiting for something. "You," Omi began and had to break off to clear his throat that suddenly was thick with unspoken emotions – they threatened to swamp him when he looked at Aya's sharp profile in the vague shadows of the car just inside the entrance to the garage.

Calmly Aya rested his hands in his lap. "Hurry. We haven't all day, have we?"

Omi bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as he reached for the door handle. "You tagging along?"

"Hai." Aya shifted, opened his door and slipped out of the car smoothly.

Omi did feel a certain urge now and edged behind a concrete pillar to relieve himself. Aya, so composed – it would not have been as hard had he shouted, or fought, or done something, anything to stop this from happening. Omi leaned his hot face against the cold, clammy pillar and felt his eyes burn. He could not help a small dry sob when he tucked himself back in and fumbled for the gun. Damn Yohji who had abandoned him when he most needed someone. But perhaps this was the truth of it all, stark and hopeless. They killed for money, a well-oiled little machine, and if a part wore out, it had to be replaced. If this piece happened to be a chip with lots of memory and precious data stored on it, it had to be wiped thoroughly. Everything else had just been a trick of his imagination. Hope was such a stupid thing.

A bullet was quick and cheap.  
Painless for its target.

Why did it have to be Aya? Cold, remote Aya who never seemed to be shaken by anything? What had Schwarz done to him?

Aya turned his back when Omi stepped back into the dark garage.  
He did not stir when the security catch of the gun snapped.  
Instead, he let out a long, soft breath. There would be silence.

Next chapter: Headache


	13. Chapter 13 Headache

Hi **NekoSandy**,

thanks for your great review. Couldn't agree more - I prefer all of them to be a bit more real, boys next door with a nasty twist, so to speak, with all of them having their own reasons why they pursue their shady line of work. To me, the Weiss boys have sad pasts and a hard time, but the men of Schwarz are rather tragic figures (even if not necessarily nice ones). I think the series shows that quite clearly - it is rather dark and fraught with metaphors and symbols. And Iam not too fond ofcutie chibis - those lads are contract killers. So here goes - took me a while, but I hope you'll like the next chapter too.

Where would you post your work? I am curious to read it.

Cheers  
LH

xxx

Heed the warnings. Rated **M** for male-male affection and references to sex, violence, nasty language and uncharitable thoughts...

**xxx**

**13. Headache – Schuldig and Yohji, Nagi, Omi and Aya, Ken**

Yohji gave Schuldig a sideways glance. The redhead was staring over the sea, strands of his long hair that was gathered in a loose ponytail playing about his face in the cool breeze of the rising morning. A surprisingly soft face when it was free of his usual unpleasant smirk, with a few freckles about his nose and scattered over his cheekbones that made him look very young. Schuldig was still a mystery to him, something a night of reluctant talking had not changed, and he was veering between wary surprise and deeply ingrained mistrust. The men of Schwarz were the enemy after all, weren't they?

So he had tried to close off his mind, but Schuldig had not tried to pry. He wore no weapon as far as Yohji could tell, his entire stance had been... open. Welcoming. Inviting even.

How Yohji wished for Aya to be here with him, just like this, like Schuldig was now...

He realised the fraction of a second too late that the pale face turned towards him, clear blue eyes pinning him sharply for a moment, before he could shutter his gaze and focus on the cigarette in his hands. His fingers trembled just so slightly. He could not fool Schuldig, of course, who suddenly reached out and touched his wrist. "Wish he were here?"

Damn him, he was way too lucid for Yohji's liking.

"I know the feeling."

Rubbish. How could he ever begin to understand when Aya did not...

Unless he was pining – oh, where was this going, no way he would begin to sympathise, but who could Schuldig be hankering for? Somehow he did not seem the type to go after little boys such as Nagi. But then, perhaps Nagi was not all that he seemed either, and Crawford, well – a formidable enemy as they had been made to feel to their cost. It might pay to find an arrangement that kept them out of each other's hair while neither Kritiker nor Eszet seemed interested in coming to blows.

That warm, firm hand trailed up Yohji's arm, and he had to fight the sudden urge to lean into the touch – he was courting the enemy, after all; this would not do, Aya would kill him if he knew, and then perhaps that was what he wanted now – for Aya to slice his throat and let him drop into silence.

"Wonder how your youngest kitten is coping." Schuldig let his hand fall away and crossed his arms, gaze drifting into the distance again. A sliver of grey light gleamed on the horizon where the sky sank into the sea, and began to broaden, wash into the darkness of the passing night with the relentless rhythm of eternity.

Yohji wiped his eyes. Omi had been pleading with him, the boy had appeared to be cracking up but just when Yohji thought he would break, Omi had surprised him with a determination that seemed too much, too cold, too hard for someone so young. Omi would be fine.

"Who d'you think they'll get to do it?"

"Will you shut up already?" Yohji burst out before he could bite the words back.

"Someone from within," Schuldig mused, lighting another cigarette for himself, "would be easiest. A test of loyalty, to boot. Really handy. Perhaps they'd pick the most levelheaded guy, to make sure."

Yohji felt himself grow cold. Ken?

"Though, if I had to decide, I'd try something else." Schuldig slid down into the sand and leaned back against the stem of driftwood they had been perched on for most of the time. He wriggled and stretched taut muscles, raised his arms over his head and arched his back, bones crackling as tense tendons eased up, before he slumped back into a comfortable pose, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, one hand in his lap, the other one fiddling with the cigarette.

Something else? There were few options, then.

"Only one other option. Test the group leader. Push him to the limit. The team's unstable, it's the leader's fault and responsibility, ne? Sort him out, make him clear up the mess."

Yohji felt dizzy one of a sudden. Someone caught him and dragged him down to the sand. He felt Schuldig's arm slip round his waist and tug him close. "Man, Balinese, when d'you eat last time?" Schuldig slapped his brow. "This won't do, huh?"

Yohji stiffened and drew back, untangling Schuldig's arm from where it sat, snug and comforting. "Shut up. What were you getting at?"

"C'mon, you know. They'll get your chibi to do the dirty work. And that looney will either play along or fight back. They'll only need to watch to complete their assessment. I'd call it catch twenty two."

Yohji made to get up but Schuldig caught his wrist once again and held on fast. "Stay put. I told you we'll know when. We'll be in time, and I'll do my damnedst to help."

Cool eyes regarded Yohji who closed his to stop this strange, searching gaze to rummage around in his soul. He did not feel up to facing Schuldig now, he could not place him anymore, and it confused him no end. Schwarz were the enemy. They had done unspeakable things to Aya, and now they were the only hope he had to get help? A twisted smile crossed his face. Schuldig was playing a game, surely, and Yohji had not the faintest idea where this was going, but he had to admit that for now, just now, during those desperate hours between truth, betrayal and loss, his warm touch felt like the only anchor he had.

No. Aya, Omi, Ken. They were his anchors. Aya who would either die at Omi's hands or kill the boy. Ken who managed to stay himself in all this by taking as much care of the chibi as the boy would allow.

"I wanna go back now," Yohji broke his own reverie, tugged loose and rose to his feet. Schuldig got up too, moving with the poised elegance of a great cat. So very much like Aya. He followed Yohji who strode towards the car and climbed into the driver's seat even as the first finger of sunlight touched the choppy waves, painting a street of gold towards the beach.

Into the revving engine, Schuldig said, "You gotta harden up a bit more, Yotan." A mournful expression passed over his face before he replaced it with his usual smug grin. "Shoot off, man. Let's get some food."

**xxx**

Traffic was picking up fast the closer they came to the city. Slouching in his seat, Schuldig had crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, his head lolling slightly. Asleep, Yohji thought with a touch of relief, but when he had to hit the brakes because he found himself at the tail end of a queue at the exit he needed to take, Schuldig's soft voice floated into the humming of the engine and the noise of the traffic around them. "You remember your first kill?"

Yohji nearly crashed into the car in front.

"There aren't many ways you can go afterwards," Schuldig continued, posture unchanged, almost sleepy. "If you're made that way, you'll find nothing wrong. Carry on, or enjoy it. Your general prison populace, yanno." He paused, shifted a little, eyes still closed. The queue moved on. Yohji shivered and tried to keep concentrated on the traffic. "I can't say I regret... 'cos I can't remember whether I do. But if we were like that, we'd not think about it either, right? So we're trying to... I mean, find out what we were like before all this... I know Nagi did for some time, but he's given up now."

No, Yohji did not like this one bit. He refused to listen, but started when Schuldig pressed a hand over his eyes, a brief, harsh gesture, before sitting up straight and blinking out at the bustle of cars and traffic lights, the slightly pinched, distracted expression on his face quickly plastered over by his usual smug mask. "Move, Bali, there – that turn, and then the next left."

"That's not the right way to-" Yohji broke off when he caught the cool glance and did as asked.

They saw Nagi loiter at a corner of a derelict apartment building. This was a bad area, Yohji knew, and he had not known they would be coming here, but he had an idea that set his heart racing and shortened his breath. Without a word, he pulled up and let the boy slip into the rear seat. Nagi settled just as silently, not even exchanging a look with either of the two men. He seemed absorbed playing a handheld computer game, but his face betrayed neither thought nor emotion, his eyes were as blank as those of a corpse.

Yohji felt a shiver run down his spine. What had he let himself in for? He could not read those people at all, those masters of deception, mindscramblers, psychos who called themselves Schwarz. How fitting, for they were as dark as the night.

And he felt... comfortable. Schuldig had behaved himself. They boy was no match for Weiss, for all Yohji could tell, and they seemed just a little strange – well, odder than Weiss at least, which did mean nothing in their trade, really. Those things Schuldig had told him made Yohji curious, but right now, he tried to keep all of this out of his mind, and it was blown right out of his thoughts when Schuldig laid a hand on Yohji's thigh and murmured, "Pull in." Gesturing at the mouth of a basement parking lot of a high rise that looked as though it was about to crumble into a heap at any moment.

Nagi pocketed his game and looked up for the first time.

His face was still. In his eyes pooled darkness.

And Yohji knew he did not want Omi to become like this.

**xxx**

"Damn, Aya, I don't think I can keep it in any longer," Omi hissed with urgency through clenched teeth as he fidgeted on the passenger seat and pressed his hands between his thighs. The satchel with his tattered school books lay on the cluttered backseat, among empty drinks bottles, junk food wrappers and forgotten crisp packets. The gun rested hard and warm against his ribcage. He had caught glimpses of himself in the smudged passenger mirror – a pale pace with a sheen of sweat, eyes sunk deep into shadowy sockets, dry discoloured lips.

Like a damn corpse. He batted the thought down angrily, yet when he caught Aya's glance in the rear mirror, he nearly burst into tears. Aya's strange purplish blue eyes held no emotion bar a flicker of concern deep within, and Omi broke away hastily and reached for the crumpled packet of cigarettes he had flung onto the dashboard earlier on, only to toss it back with a breathless curse. Empty, now of all times.

"Yohji always checks his supply as though it were ammo," Aya remarked dryly and brought out a fresh, unopened packet from his denim jacket. "Here." He wrinkled his nose with the faintest hint of disgust. "Dependencies make you weak, chibi."

Was that why he was acting so odd? Had something scraped over a soft spot? But Aya had no soft spots, as far as Omi could see...

Aya focused on the road again. "Addictions, friends, weakness," he lectured, his tone subtly becoming more bitter, "they all drag you down, make you vulnerable. Bad for anyone, but for people like us, it's usually lethal." He pulled up by the gaping mouth of a basement garage, the same Schuldig, Nagi and Yohji had entered. "Here, take your piss. I'll watch your back, ne?"

He brought the car to a halt but did not cut the engine. Omi expected him to reach for the katana that also lay on the backseat, but Aya just sat there, waiting for something. "You," Omi began and had to break off to clear his throat that suddenly was thick with unspoken emotions – they threatened to swamp him when he looked at Aya's sharp profile in the vague shadows of the car just inside the entrance to the garage.

Calmly Aya rested his hands in his lap. "Hurry. We haven't all day, have we?"

Omi bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as he reached for the door handle. "You tagging along?"

"Hai." Aya shifted, opened his door and slipped out of the car smoothly.

Omi did feel a certain urge now and edged behind a concrete pillar to relieve himself. Aya, so composed – it would not have been as hard had he shouted, or fought, or done something, anything to stop this from happening. Omi leaned his hot face against the cold, clammy pillar and felt his eyes burn. He could not help a small dry sob when he tucked himself back in and fumbled for the gun. Damn Yohji who had abandoned him when he most needed someone. But perhaps this was the truth of it all, stark and hopeless. They killed for money, a well-oiled little machine, and if a part wore out, it had to be replaced. If this piece happened to be a chip with lots of memory and precious data stored on it, it had to be wiped thoroughly. Everything else had just been a trick of his imagination. Hope was such a stupid thing.

A bullet was quick and cheap.

Painless for its target.

Why did it have to be Aya? Cold, remote Aya who never seemed to be shaken by anything? What had Schwarz done to him?

Aya turned his back when Omi stepped back into the dark garage.

He did not stir when the security catch of the gun snapped.

Instead, he let out a long, soft breath. There would be silence.

He had longed for it.

**xxx**

**Next chapter: 14. Surprise – Omi and Aya, Ken, Yohji, Schuldig, Nagi**


	14. Chapter 14 Surprise

**Surprise – Omi and Aya, Ken, Yohji, Schuldig, Nagi**

xxx

Warnings/Disclaimer: NC-17. Shonen-Ai, I'd say. ANGST! And they never watch their language, damn them. Don't own, though I regret that. I'd love to own them all. All rights with their original creators.

xxx

A BIG THANK YOU to everyone who spared the time to read and review - I hope you will keep enjoying this and keep helping me by telling me what you like and dislike. Apologies for any slips and mistakes - I have no beta reader.

Omi snapped back the catch of his gun. He felt empty, the raging inside his soul having left but bleak silence. He felt exhausted, too, and staring at Aya's back, just longed for all of this to end.

"Aya," he breathed as he stepped closer, until he could smell Aya's warm, spicy scent, hear his breathing, sense his warmth.

"Do it already, chibi," came the soft reply.

"Do it? Fuck you, Fujimiya," Omi blurted out, "fuck, fuck, fuck..." His finger tightened on the trigger. "You bloody bastard! Why d'you beat Yohji, why're you doing this to us, why d'you fucking snap-" He broke off, drawing a harsh breath, finger tightening a bit more still, then his eyes narrowed, taking in a last image of bright crimson hair flowing over plain white, the picture of the vase with the rose flicking past his mind, the smell of blood and scorched skin rising to his nostrils, before he screwed his eyes shut and pulled through.

He had not bothered with a silencer. The bang nearly tore his eardrums, the recoil hit his arm, rolled up his elbow and shoulder and flung him hard against the pillar. Omi gasped as the corner of the concrete structure knocked the breath out of him, and let himself drop limply to the ground, the gun slipping from his fingers.

Ken's yell cut across the garage even as he stormed through the gate. "Omi! Damn you, where are you?" He scanned the place and rushed to Omi who slowly dragged his eyes open and scrambled to his feet. Ken was over him in a flurry, gathering him in a frantic hug, raking shaky fingers through his hair, but Omi pushed him away.

He collected the gun and straightened, pale and still to meet Ken's worried gaze. "I'm fine," he said quietly, making to sidestep his friend, but Ken seized his sleeve and held him back.

"What happened? Good grief, you look like a ghost... and what are you doing here? And they?" He jerked back his head, and Omi – about to struggle free – took a moment to register this, then paused abruptly and gaped at Ken who regarded him uneasily. "Have... haven't you-" He swallowed and shoved Ken aside.

By the car, where Aya had stood, he saw Yohji, unfurling his lanky frame from a crouch.  
And two of Schwarz, ducking behind the vehicle.  
And, between them-

"Aya?"

Omi stiffened and yanked his arm free. Slowly he walked towards the four men. "What's going on, Bali?" he demanded, locking eyes with Yohji.

Who shifted ever so slightly, to wedge himself in front of Aya. "Please, Bombay, put the gun away – I'll explain."

"I've seen enough, I think," Omi replied quietly, his gaze never leaving Yohji.

Ken rushed across and fell into his arm as he raised the gun again, aiming it at Yohji who covered Aya who fidgeted to shake off the two Schwarz men, and the bullet whipped into the roof. With a furious yelp, Omi tugged to free his wrist from Ken's grip, his breath coming in hard pants in between an endless stream of curses and angry sobs.

"Bombay, wait," Ken pleaded, trying to restrain the younger boy, "don't let me hurt you, please, gimme the damn thing, stop it, oh, please!"

"Let the fuck off," Omi raged, even as Ken hauled him back and spun him. Omi suddenly found himself immobilised with his back against Ken's broad, unyielding body, his arms clasped within this steely embrace, but a kick against Ken's shin and an elbow into his stomach broke the deadlock, and Omi stumbled free, whirled round and trained the gun once more on Aya who stood still between Yohji and the redhead from Schwarz.

Agitated and focused on Aya and the two men by his side, Omi hardly saw Nagi move, was barely aware of the boy until a cool touch to his shoulder sent him reeling. He felt a wave of ice hit his mind, then rip through him with a force that snatched his breath and stalled his heart, before he came to with a deep, moaning gasp and found himself flat on his back on the grimy concrete floor.

To meet a pair of dark eyes that stilled him with their gaze, for though they were set in a face as young as his own, they were ancient.

Crouching by his side, Nagi regarded him briefly, before getting up. He slipped back to Schuldig and whipped out his game again while Ken rushed to gather up Omi, and Yohji pushed Aya none-too-gently into the car.


	15. Chapter 15 Never

**Never – Aya and Yohji**

Warnings/Disclaimer: NC-17. Shonen-Ai, I'd say. ANGST! And they never watch their language, damn them. Don't own, though I regret that. I'd love to own them all. All rights with their original creators.

xxx

Schuldig and Nagi had gone before Weiss had sorted themselves out. It was an uncomfortable ride home to the Koneko – Omi shrouded himself in cold silence, Ken appeared glad to be able to concentrate on driving, and Aya had closed his eyes and folded his hands in his lap. Yohji lit a cigarette on the glowing stub of the last and filled his lungs with smoke when all he wanted was to yell at Aya.

While Ken and Omi went to park the car, Yohji walked into the shop before Aya could prevent him. Habitually, he scanned the place. His eyes widened, then narrowed as his his gaze fastened on the bamboo tray, and he turned to face Aya. He opened his mouth but before he could say anything, Aya cut him off.

"Some things must never happen." His voice was deep and softer than it had been for a long time. He still wore his all-white outfit, and it began to unnerve Yohji to see him like this, all red and white and so awfully still.

"Yeah, like you getting the chibi to zap you off," Yohji fired back, unable to hold back his flaring anger any longer. Swiftly, he moved against Aya and crowded him up against the doorjamb. "What the hell were you thinking, Fujimiya? Breaking the boy to pieces 'cos you're fucked in the head?" His voice began to shake. "Breaking us all to apart 'cos you're down? What about asking for help? Huh?" He clawed into the front of Aya's jumper and shook him hard, then pushed him back against the door with a hard thud. "I was wrong about you. We all were, you know, 'cos you're one selfish bastard."

He let go of Aya, lit another cigarette and began to pace the room. Smoking in hasty puffs, he finally stopped by the window to stare at the bamboo blind that was still drawn. The Koneko had not opened today; this was bad for business and worse for their cover story, but right now he did not want to think about what Manx would have to say about this.

Aya just stood there, motionless, in silence, his head resting against the doorjamb and his hands hidden behind his back.

This stillness was worse than his tempers, Yohji decided as he pressed his free hand over his eyes and poked his index finger into one to staunch the dampness. The arm with the cigarette hung limply by his side as he tried to fight what was about to draw him under deeper than he had ever been, and lost the battle. "Man... Aya..." he whispered, the burning inside finally engulfing his chest, and he had to lean agaist the wall for support.

"Schuldig was right, Yohji."

Yohji winced at the name. Schuldig had him confused, and the boy Nagi freaked him out – the way he had sent Omi into a cold downturn with a simple touch drove shivers down Yohji's spine. Now the chibi was seething in uncharacterisic silence. He had to feel betrayed...

Yohji felt his knees go weak. He slumped onto the workbench and lifted the cigarette to his lips again, only to find the thing had burned to ashes already. He let the stub drop. Aya would go cranky, but-

A soft creaking of boards, the tiniest dipping of the wooden surface, and Yohji forced his eyes open to see Aya sitting opposite, in his usual closed-off posture: back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands still in his lap, head slightly lowered so that red bangs fell over his face and hid his expression as he spoke in the same level tone. "Schuldig said you were too soft for this. He said he'd be able to hand-feed you once he was done with us. Is he, Yohji?"

"If you-" Yohji felt his voice crack, tore his hand from his eyes and ruffled it through his hair instead, then let it drop helplessly as he sought Aya's gaze, his own full of bitterness. "If you'd seen some sense sooner, there would have been no need for me to crawl to Schwarz for help. As it was, they came in handy when all else failed. They were around when I had no choice."

A brief flash of heat in Aya's eyes, then they iced over again. "Ee, it seems they are good at that. What is 'all else', Yohji?"

Yohji snorted, resentment seeping through him and driving away the pain. "Like kissing up Manx' ass begging her to spare you, or trying to make you listen... Did you fail the bloody assessment on purpose? Did you ever think of the poor kid?"

"I did. He's in this job, he'll get no other, better for him to learn this lesson." Aya's tone was clipped, without remorse. "I meant to make it as easy for him as I could. You spoiled it."

Yohji gasped. "Geez, are you actually listening to yourself?" And then, before he could stop them, the words slipped his lips, "To think I loved you..."

And just for one heartbeat, Aya's face crumbled in utter misery before his composed mask snapped back into place. He rose and said, barely above his breath, "You were wrong."

That evening, they all avoided one another. Omi had locked himself into his room and would not even allow Ken in who kept smooching back and forth between his own quarters and the kitchen, every time pausing at Omi's door to eavesdrop unashamedly, worry plainly in his face. Aya had gone downstairs into the shop to tend to the neglected plants on the display shelves and the tiny greenhouse in a corner of the backyard. Yohji slouched on the couch with the television blaring nonsense and was in the process of tackling his third bottle of sake.

It did nothing to soothe him. Relief, anger and plain, hollow fear milled in his mind and made his chest throb.

For he had to come to realise that right now, he felt closer to Schuldig in his strangeness than to Aya, or Ken, or even Omi. The redhead from Schwarz had stoked something in Yohji's mind that he did not even want to begin to check out, and piqued Yohji's innate curiosity enough to make him restless.

Among other things.

Irritably, Yohji decided that Schuldig was on his mind far too often, and that some night air soaked with exhaust fumes would help to sort this out right then. He dragged himself up and managed to don his boots and a denim jacket. The jacket was too short – it would be Ayas, he mused fuzzily as he stumbled out of the door while fumbling for his cigarettes.

Unthinkingly he headed for the park.

The deepening dusk settled almost black beneath old trees and voluminous shrubs. It was still and dank, a world removed from the unceasing bustle of the city, despite the closeness of the highway. Yohji found the bench by the lake and slumped down to smoke in silence.

Yohji was too drunk to be surprised when Schuldig strolled along the dirt path that once had been covered in pretty gravel, and without expecting an invitation,Schuldig onto the place next to Yohji. Schuldig wore black boots, denims and a grey sweater despite the brooding humidity of the summer evening. His hair was bound loosely as before, a few sweaty tendrils stuck to his neck and temples. "You look knackered," he said, his tone soft and cool.

"I don't need your sympathy, thank you very much," Yohji grouched. "Just why do I keep bumping into you, hm? Want payment? I still owe you."

"You don't," came the surprising reply. "I asked for a night, I got it. That was the deal."

Yohji stared at him. "I'll be damned if I figure you out."

A slight smile tugged at the corners of Schuldig's thin mouth. "Yeah, that's the idea, Bali. But," suddenly he leaned close, pressing to Yohji's side from knee to shoulder, "I could do with some company."

I could do with a fuck, Yohji thought fuzzily and firmly bit his tongue. At least Schuldig had red hair, even though the similarities ended with this. He felt different – bony, lanky, lacking any elegance; he smelled clean, of plain soap instead of Aya's intoxicating aroma, and his hair was longer and finer. Would he even want... he sent out mixed signals, and how would he be in bed anyway? As grabby as he was otherwise? Intent on hurting someone? Would this bea way to find out what he had done to Aya that had messed with his sanity so severely?

Yohji caught his breath. "Company?" he murmured vaguely, shifting in slight discomfort under the calculating blue gaze, but now he was intrigued by his idea, if not at ease. Those eyes were too old for the freckled face, and too wise for Yohji's liking. Too full of strange, shifting shadows and sparks, and he wondered whether Schwarz were indeed as mad as Manx had told them, or as the results of their work had led him to believe. Farfarello surely enjoyed butchery.

"My head hurts," Schuldig stated dryly even as he tensed and rose, "so what, wanna tag along? Your place or mine?" He grinned.

Yohji shuddered. He had meant to go clubbing later that night, to drown in the thumping noise of techno and heavy metal, the thick heat of a crowded dance floor, savour the press of sweaty bodies writhing around him, and get thoroughly pissed and high on whatever was at hand. He certainly had not planned on an evening in the company of a freak.

But then, he thought wryly, what had become of Weiss?

Schuldig's silent scrutiny made him uneasy. "I don't do home calls," he growled.

The redhead merely shrugged. "Fine. What do you do? Let's see, beaches?" His smile took on a fine edge. "Perhaps harbours would do? I know a spot where we'd have a great view of the city, all bathed in light."

"Gods, just the romantic, aren't you?" Yohji joked, and nearly choked when a slim, pale figure appeared from the shadows behind Schuldig and hugged him from behind.

Schuldig laughed quietly and reached up to caress the snow-blond head. "Hey, Far, behave now will you?" And to Yohji, "C'mon, my car's round the corner, let's go. I can't sleep, and I like your company, Bali." He clearly expected no resistance because he turned and began to walk, hooking one arm around Farfarello's waist. The one-eyed man kept looking back at Yohji who trundled after them, feeling utterly spaced out. He heard scraps of a muttered conversation, Schuldig calmly responding to some heated remarks from his companion. "Cold?"

"Warm me. You," Farfarello said, clasping Schuldig's shoulder in what would be a hurtful grasp.

The redhead seemed completely unfazed. "Yeah, will do, now do you want a cigarette? There, I lit it for you. No, if you stick that knife into my tummy I can't warm you anymore 'cos you'll make me all cold... put it back, huh?"

"Close," Farfarello growled, his single eye shooting a hostile glance at Yohji.

"Yeah, keep it close, there, you could slip it into your sleeve, ne? That's it – oh, there's our car. You drive? Please?"

Yohji suppressed the urge to gag when they exchanged a kiss, but it was a surprisingly coy touching of scarred lips to Schuldig's cheek, a quick raking of greedy pale fingers through long red hair, a silently reverent gaze Farfarello gave hisbarely oldercompanion before he got in behind the wheel and flatly agreed, "I drive."

"Hurry up," Schuldig snapped at Yohji as he folded his gangly frame onto the back seat, "or are you really such a lazy lush?"

Yohji hesitated, wondering whether it would be worse to be skewered by Farfarello or prodded at by Schuldig, before reluctantly climbing in beside the latter. Schuldig flashed him a companionable grin, then leaned forward and pressed his chin onto Farfarello's shoulder. "You remember that nice place in the docks?"

Farfarello gave a small chuckle and put his foot down on the gas.  
Yohji felt for the harigane in his pocket.  
Just in case.

xxx

Next chapter: Equilibrium - Schuldig and Yohji


	16. Chapter 16 Equilibrium

Hi there,

Sorry for the long wait. I'm trying to be good. **Vampire Queen **and **Comtess, **thank you for your lovely reviews; I hope you will like this one too. Let me know, ladies. VQ, thanks for the hint with chapters 12 and 13; I amended this glitch. Comtess, hope you are well - haven't heard from you in ages.

Cheers  
LH

xxx

**16. Equilibrium – Yohji and Schuldig, Farfarello **

Yohji wished he were less drunk and stoned.

He longed for Aya's reckless poise.

He was almost grateful for Farfarello's hand that held him by the scruff of his neck as they balanced precariously along a steel girder that stuck out from the shell of a warehouse-to-be.

"Whatcha say – great view, innit?" Schuldig called over his shoulder, dancing lightly ahead, arms spread for balance, his flaming hair tossing in the wind that up here, five storeys above the jumble of ships, lorries and people in the crowed docks, seemed much stronger than down there on safe ground.

Yohji felt dizzy and grabbed Farfarello's arm, then dropped to his knees, dragging the other man down with him, and clasped the edges of the broad girder. "No more," he gasped, trying hard not to heave, "can't go further, damn you, now dump me already!"

"Oh, I wouldn't do this," came the cheerful reply, and Schuldig slid back to sit by Yohji's side, contentedly patting Farfarello's hand. "Thanks, mate."

Farfarello gave a contented grunt and sat down too, dangling his legs over the edge as he stared down. Yohji squeezed his eyes shut, forced himself to bring his frantic panting under control, and when he managed to slow down his breathing, he felt a hard, warm hand grab his upper arm and tug him up.

"C'mon, don't be a wuss. Enjoy the view," Schuldig said, amusement tingling in his voice, and when Yohji gave in to his insistent nudge and sat up, cautious not to let his eyes stray to the ground so far below, he met those strange cool eyes, regarding him with the same kind of persistent curiosity he had noticed before.

He felt his skin crawl. "You're truly nuts," he mumbled, shakily fumbling for his cigarettes.

Farfarello blinked his golden eye at him and quirked a grin, Schuldig laughed and lit a couple of cigarettes, pushing one between Yohji's lips. "Here – you'd burn your nose trying to light one right now. What's your problem, Bali?"

"Being stuck five storeys high…" Yohji could not help but shudder, his breath leaving him mid-sentence.

"With two nutcases, and you're so afraid you're shitting yourself," Schuldig finished for him, breathing out a stream of smoke.

"You always pry around in other people's heads?" Yohji bit out, trying at least to stop his teeth from clattering.

The arm Schuldig slid around his waist was not entirely unwelcome, neither was the warmth he shared with Yohji as he softly leaned against him. "No," came the oddly sullen answer, "they are in MY head all the fucking time."

"Headache," Farfarello seconded gruffly, his eye fixed fondly and with a spark of concern on the redhead.

Yohji could not stop shivering, the heat of the alcohol wearing off in the chill gusts of wind that made the entire structure hum and sway; he felt his stomach rise to his throat again and dipped forward only to be pulled back, the arm tightening around his middle. "Hey," Schuldig said quietly, "don't do that; I don't wanna scrape you off the concrete down there."

Yohji groaned, clutching his arms to his belly, the cigarette dangling from his pale lips. He could feel sweat gather in little beads on his upper lip and brow, and strands of his hair getting stuck to his temples and the nape of his neck.

"Man, you're in a such a state." Schuldig shook his head in mock disapproval.

"Hell, what d'you expect?" And to distract himself, Yohji picked up on Farfarello's remark. "Headache? What does he mean?"

The breeze blew a few red strands across his face; he brushed them back and Schuldig smiled, looking tired for a moment before perking up again. "He means, _I got_ a stinking headache."

"Wuss," Yohji grumbled, and at the same moment felt a glare. Shit, he thought warily as Farfarello focused on him with a low growl, and to diffuse the situation, he added hastily, "So how is it to plod around in other people's minds?"

With a snort, Schuldig leaned his head against Yohji's shoulder. "It doesn't work like that."

Yohji would have sworn his hand only landed on Schuldig's thigh because he needed to steady himself and the other man had shifted too close to leave any space between them. Farfarello watched unblinkingly, his scarred face blank.

"How then?" Yohji prodded, realising with a start that his voice had dropped a register and sounded raw and husky. Schuldig dangled his legs, muscles playing subtly under Yohji's hand that Yohji did not dare to move right then. Instead, drunk and uneasy, he let his eyes slide shut, only to be assaulted by Schuldig's fresh scent that wafted right into his nostrils.

"It's… kinda loud," the redhead said, all mirth gone from his tone, "noise in my head, all the time. Voices. Vibes – they're more like a hum that tingles down your spine. It's a damn porridge of sounds making a fucking racket in my brain, and I can't stop it. Like a radio between stations, yanno; most of it doesn't make any sense 'cos it's such a mess… and when I'm trying to filter it, or block it, it hurts even more."

Glad about Schuldig's apparent oblivion to his touch, Yohji shifted so he could look at the redhead who met his gaze with a weary grin. "If they're strong enough, I can pick up signals, and sometimes, if I manage to concentrate hard enough…"

"You manage to feed them back?" Yohji speculated, curiosity getting the better of him.

Schuldig shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah, like feedback on a microphone. I scream down their lifelines." He bared his teeth in a sudden grin, almost feral with an expression in his eyes to match. Greedy, hungry. Determined. "You felt me?"

Yohji could not suppress another shiver. He tried to edge away a little, but Schuldig held him firmly; he was close and warm, a solid, steady presence on their lofty perch, and he smelled good, clean, almost… homely, Yohji thought with amusement, yes, like the linen cupboard of a good housewife. "I think I did," he murmured hoarsely, "back at that party. I didn't know that it gives you pain."

"Lots," Farfarello commented softly. Yohji could have sworn the scarred man had edged closer.

"Yeah," Schuldig agreed, a hint of bitterness creeping into his tone, "it bloody sucks. Just figure the worst migraine you've ever had, and think of having that all the time. Like now. And in half an hour. And throughout the night, the next day, the next year…" He broke off, fidgeting until he had settled himself more thoroughly against Yohji, then he let out a long breath of smoke and dropped the cigarette stub, looking on as it vanished into the light-spattered darkness below.

Firefly, Yohji thought irrelevantly, Aya. Dazzling, beautiful, bruised Aya.

Farfarello reached around Yohji and caught a stray strand of Schuldig's hair, tugging a little and coiling it round his finger. Had the psycho been this close before? Yohji mused nervously. He could feel Schuldig press against him as he caught Farfarello's hand, briefly lifted it to his cheek and let it drop, a quick gesture that oddly combined affection and carelessness. Farfarello drew back and braced his arms on his knees, his sole eye staring down at the glittering toy jumble of the harbour again.

"So something's drilling into your brain all the time," Yohji tried to sum it up, even as he felt a chill trickle through him, "and he?" He nodded at Farfarello.

"Psychotic and schizophrenic. Certified, just in case he needs to present his qualifications." Schuldig managed another grin. "Never know what comes next, huh, Far?" He did not seem to expect an answer, and he got none. "Nagi… well, the kid's panicked by changes, won't talk to strangers… hardly talks at all, really. Guess he knows that silence's gold..."

He made light, but Yohji felt his mood darken, and the cold inside him spread. "Crawford the only normal one then?"

Yohji could feel Schuldig tense briefly before he relaxed again, sagging a bit more against Yohji. "He's got dreams. Visions. Flashing past him like a film that runs too slow, stroboscopic images he calls them. A dozen or so of them about everything that could happen in the next few moments whether he's waking or sleeping, then he tries to filter out the ones that matter without going mad. Like watch what you're doing our you'll alter what you've just seen. Dunno how he copes."

"So you're all crazy," Yohji let slip and wanted to bite his tongue the same moment, but Farfarello merely grinned, and Schuldig only blinked at him, cool eyes gleaming from beneath ragged bangs, a half-smile on his thin lips.

"Well, if you put it this way... Still, at least we know where we belong."

That hurt. Yohji leaned away to shrug him off, only to bump into Farfarello who shoved him firmly back into Schuldig's arms.

Schuldig grabbed him by the neck and slowly trailed his hand down Yohji's back. "Oh please, don't rush off. You might just lose your balance… and tumble…"

Yohji yelped at the brief nudge at the small of his back, but before he could tip over Schuldig caught him and pulled him close again, pressing his face into Yohji's tousled hair. Farfarello's lips curved in a thin smile; Schuldig chuckled. "Hey, Bali, easy, man, you had way too much drink for your own good – one day it might be the death of you."

Yohji felt sick. They were playing with him, and he had just about enough, nerves beginning to fray, stress and despair catching up with him as he could not concentrate on keeping them down.

"Perhaps," Schuldig breathed into his ear, "we should go now, hm? To make you feel better?"

He rose lightly, hauling Yohji with him. Farfarello got to his feet rather unwillingly. "View," he grumbled, and Schuldig gave him a brilliant smile. He was pretty like this, it crossed Yohji's fogged mind, looking much younger for some blissful moments, until his eyes froze over again and the smile died.

"C'mon, Far, haven't you seen enough? I'm getting cold here, and aren't you hungry? We got some food in the car."

He pushed Yohji at Farfarello who grabbed his arm in a steely grasp, and if Yohji had thought the ascent terrifying, he was soon taught otherwise.

**xxx**

Yohji came to his senses in some cramped, dark space, and registered breathing – two people, he thought groggily, dragging his eyes open – and found himself sprawled on the backseat of the car, one foot on the floor, one on the seat, his arms folded against his chest, his head in Schuldig's lap. The redhead was leaning forward to prop one elbow on the back of the driver's seat so he could look over Farfarello's shoulder.

The scarred youth was driving in silence. The humming of the engine and the rush of tyres on rain-wet asphalt filled the darkness. In his position, Yohji's face was almost covered with Schuldig's sweater that hung loosely about his body, and he was acutely aware that his cheek touched bare skin where it nestled against Schuldig's stomach. He only needed to stick out his tongue to flick it over soft white, soap-scented flesh. He realised that Schuldig's other hand was lacing through his hair, an absentminded, soothing gesture, repeated over and over in an even rhythm.

Eyes wide open, Yohji held himself very still. Aya, he thought painfully, what is happening to us? Are we turning as mad as Schwarz? Or are we already… not so different after all…

As if Schuldig had picked up the subtle change in his breathing pattern, or felt the slight tensing of muscles, he leaned back so that he could look down at Yohji. "Hey, sleepy." A vague smile touched his lips as both his hands settled in Yohji's hair, mussing and untangling it playfully.

"Where…"

Schuldig shrugged. "Just driving." His smile broadened. "It's keeping us sane, sometimes. Far 'cos he's kept busy, me 'cos it distracts me. No need to arrive anywhere soon." He sighed. "You comfortable?"

And in spite of himself, Yohji heard himself answer, "Yeah. Your… headache?"

Schuldig merely shrugged. "Took some painkillers. Wanna go home?"

The question stabbed into Yohji's mind and left a hollow sensation in his chest. Schuldig gathered him closer so that his nose poked into firm flesh and his lips touched warm skin. Schuldig tasted as he smelled, fresh, clean, crisp, with a faint hint of cigarette smoke. "It's ok, I don't wanna go home either," he murmured, leaning down so that his long hair brushed over Yohji's neck and cheek. "Sometimes, they all go on my nerves."

"I'll be damned if I understand," Yohji murmured, his voice muffled against this warm body. "What is it you're after? Why don't you just do as you like and be done with it?"

"But I am doing it," Schuldig sighed. "Though..." A quick glance into the rear mirror, another wry smile. "Keep your eye on the road, Far, will you? It would be a stupid thing to wrap ourselves around some tree now, would it?" Absentmindedly, one of his hands slid lower, smoothing back strands of dark golden hair from Yohji's neck. He had surprisingly gentle hands, Yohji mused, feeling mushy and relaxed… wait, relaxed? With a psychopath as their driver and a madman for his pillow?

Schuldig's hands stilled as Yohji began to fidget. "Hey," he murmured, "I don't bite."

Whatever Schuldig had said before about his abilities, it floated through Yohji's mind, was rubbish for he must be able to see right into his head.

"I want," Schuldig said quietly, "to talk sometimes. To someone who can understand… well, at least a bit. I want us to heal. I want the boy to grow up and get some sort of normal life." He snorted, his smile turning bitter. "Dreams, huh?"

Painfully familiar dreams. Yohji shook his head, the friction of skin on skin addling his brain enough to let slip what had preoccupied him for a while, "And you want Crawford?" Just what had made him spit this out right then, Yohji wondered, shocked by his own audacity given the circumstances. He tensed, but Schuldig fell silent, resuming his caress.

After a while, he said, "Perhaps. I don't know. He isn't easy to want, or to live with, for that matter."

"So," Yohji swallowed as this gentle, persistent hand moved on to knead his shoulder, making him relax despite himself, and lean into the touch, "what are you hoping for?"

"A new series of experiments," Schuldig answered quietly, all mirth and lightness wiped away. "Something to reverse what's been done to us. They stripped us bare, skinned our minds and left us raw. I want that skin back. For me, Crawford, for good old Far. Most of all for poor lil' Nags."

Aya had always feared for his sister to become a test subject. Yohji shuddered and tried to rise, but the gentle hands grew heavy and hard as they pressed him down and gripped his hair. "Stay," Schuldig murmured, "aren't you comfy right now, hm?" He leaned down, nearly smothering Yohji, and pressed a kiss onto his jawbone. He did not draw back; Yohji could feel his breath whisp over the skin of his neck, sending fine tremors down his spine. Like it or not, Schuldig felt good. Yohji had been starved for closeness by Aya, and here his old enemy offered the warmth he had been craving since Aya had decided to cut him off… now when exactly had he managed to do that?

Schuldig's arms clasped round him before he could jerk up.

"What did you do to Aya?" Yohji hissed, struggling against the redhead. Schuldig held on but his grip began to slip, the car slowed down and Farfarello craned his neck to look for a suitable place to pull up.

"Stop this, Bali," Schuldig gritted, "for fuck's sake, lie still, I don't wanna get Far angry… stop it, man!" The last one driven home by a spike of pain that lanced from Yohji's neck through his body and left him yapping in pain and nearly paralysed. Pressurepoints, he remembered vaguely what Aya had tried to teach him once...

"No, it's fine, really – no, please, can't you drive a bit longer, I'll make up for it, Far, really," Schuldig's hasty pleading drifted past his ears, and he realised that the redhead stretched to touch Farfarello's shoulders. "C'mon, Far, please? You know I'll make you feel good. Or miserable." The last words uttered in a cranky tone.

"Bed," came the gritty retort, and Schuldig sighed deeply.

"Yeah, when we get home, right?"

"Promise."

"Promise. Now drive on, will you?"

Schuldig sagged into the seat when the car veered back onto the road and picked up speed again. City lights flicked through the darkness, myriads of neon coloured shards falling around them like showeres of shooting stars, piercing their eyes, washing through their minds.

"You the team slut then?" Yohji bit out, hating the way Schuldig made him feel.

"We're quite alike, hm?" Schuldig snorted softly.

"Sicko."

"Ouch," said Schuldig, barely above his breath. His hands that had resumed their caress of Yohji's hair and skin, stilled and tensed – Yohji could feel the fine muscles harden as they pressed into his flesh. "I don't fuck Nagi, if that's what you're getting at. And for the rest of us, sometimes it's hard to tell where one of us ends and the other ones begin. We've been Schwarz for so long…"

"And who were you before?" Yohji jabbed at him, again trying to twist out of his arms, but Schuldig merely pressed harder, and Yohji relented, mindful of the scarred presence in the driver's seat.

"I was…" Schuldig paused, then shook his head, a strangely bewildered look in his eyes before a guarded smile blotted it out again. "I can't remember."

In spite of his alcohol-mottled brain, Yohji thought it wise not to mention what he had seen of the Kritiker files on the Schwarz men, but it brought a shower of goosepimps to his skin, and he found it safer to shut his eyes from the steady blue gaze above him. That left him with touch, smell, taste – damn, he had meant to moisten his dry lips but had he really just flicked his tongue over Schuldig's navel? A slight flinching of firm muscles confirmed this, as did the stirring of his groin. Gods, he was almost hard, this was just not happening now, was it?

The hand that scooted down there and settled securely between his thighs belied his denial. His legs opening as if of their own accord betrayed his lack of willpower right then, and his body pressing eagerly into the exploratory rubbing of a firm palm over his rapidly hardening length decided it had enough of being kept captive to a spoilsport mind. He bit back a groan, but could not catch the small sigh that drifted from his parting lips. They were met in a wet, warm kiss, Schuldig's hair swiping his face, his tongue prodding cautiously. Asking permission.

Yohji had expected something would happen. He had not expected this. Tenderness. A reluctance in Schuldig's touch that led him to believe he could stop this if he wanted. The kiss tasted faintly of mint and a lot of tobacco, with an underlying sweetness Yohji could not pinpoint. Did not care for, merely wanted to taste it again, to find out perhaps…

Aya. Beneath the smoke, Schuldig damn right tasted like Aya.

Yohji tore away, for once taking Schuldig unawares, slammed into the corner of the seat and curled up, ready to jump at the redhead and throttle him psycho driver or not. "What did you do to him?" he snarled at Schuldig. "What did you do to Aya?"

"Only what he asked for," Schuldig said, wiping his mouth and tasting his finger, eyes steadfastly on Yohji. "He wanted to feel. We made him. He kept screaming your name when he-"

"Shut up!"

"-came," Schuldig completed the sentence, a gleam entering his eyes that was echoed in the look of Farfarello's eye in the rear mirror. "It was easy. Boring. You left, Bali, and he broke. Like that." He snapped his fingers. "We did not even have to restrain him. All it took was telling him we'd find you if he decided to walk. So he stayed for a while, good boy that he is, for Far to play with. Far likes cutting, and your friend seemed to enjoy the sensation."

"You sick fuck."

"Yeah, and you're all sane." He lit a new cigarette, but did not offer one to Yohji this time. "We wanted to see how far we could go. How strong you Weiss lot were. Turned out you're pathetic. We may be… cracked. Shards of something bigger that used to be our old selves, but at least we know we're nothing alone. We're Schwarz. Together. Now you haven't worked yourselves out yet, have you? Each on his own." A derisive snort, a puff of smoke obscuring the pale face for a heartbeat, before Schuldig shook his head. "It was all in his head. I didn't tell him what we'd do, only that we'd find you. He made up the rest in his mind. He had this idea of us doing… things to you, and he'd decided he'd not let it happen. Well, perhaps he enjoyed it, thinking he was taking your place?" He shrugged. "Having control wrenched away for once can be a nice little vent for someone like that. Tell me, does he control you, Bali? Do you have to struggle to fuck him though you know he wants it?" He leaned forward and locked eyes with Yohji. "And wouldn't it be good to have it without a fight for once?"

He moved against Yohji who cramped his hand around the harigane coiled in his pocket – strange that it was still there – but merely stared into those intense eyes. Touch. Yohji jumped, only to be caught in another embrace, firm, passionate, not as yielding as the first but not crushing either. As Aya would wrap him into his arms when they had given in to their longings and admitted that they had gone beyond comradeship, and everything had suddenly become more complex… Well, Yohji realised with a stab of pain, he had admitted and Aya had stalled.

Schuldig's lips touched his cheek, a breath of smoke drifted through his hair. "He ever let you be top?"

Only when Aya was too lazy for more.

Yohji tried to stamp out the bitter thought before he could let it slip, but Schuldig did not expect an answer anyway. "I'd let you," he murmured, moulding against Yohji, a warm, growing weight. He did feel good.

"Where?" Yohji whispered into the mess of red hair that fell over his face.

And he could feel the smile on Schuldig's lips as the redhead leaned in for another soft kiss. "I know of a nice little place not far from the Koneko. My own place."

**xxx**

Next chapter: Bare I – Schuldig and Yohji 


	17. Chapter 17 Bare I

Hi there,

**Comtess**, nice to hear from you. Hope that all went well for you, and I appreciate very much that you still make the time to rev and mail – it means a lot to me. Thank you so much.

**Vampire Queen**, thanks for your sweet feedback. I can't help but liking the lads in the throes of some good oldfashioned angst torture, so here goes another one…

Cheers

LH

xxx

**17. Bare I – Schuldig and Yohji**

Farfarello had decided to stay by the car when Schuldig asked him to stop by one of the less prosperous looking apartment blocks not far from the Koneko. Way too close for Yohji's liking.

The ground floor 'apartment' Schuldig claimed to be his consisted of a shower and a room large enough to hold a single bed, shoved against the wall on one side of the door, a nightstand with pitcher and bowl at its foot end. An electric kettle and a microwave on a shelf next to the bathroom door appeared to be the only means of preparing food. Opposite the entrance, a tiny window gave onto a narrow street and the fire escape. The place smelled of soap, floorwax and rotting walls, but the bedlinen was spotless though faded as Yohji noted when he pulled back the sheets for a quick inspection.

Arms crossed, Schuldig leaned against the window sill and watched him, an amused quirk on his face. "Man, you sure don't fuss," he quipped.

"No."

Yohji began to undress, but Schuldig was with him in a flash and caught his hands that were busy undoing shirt buttons. "Don't. Not like this."

He was close. He was warm. He smelled clean. Yohji felt very drunk at this moment and in desperate need to touch someone, be touched and held and hugged, but he could not possibly embrace his enemy… "What's your fucking problem, Schwarz?"

"I don't... I don't want to feel like a whore," Schuldig blurted out almost angrily.

"Hey, but that's what we are," Yohji snapped and was shoved back hard.

"You perhaps. I'm only playing mattress for my team 'cos they can't go elsewhere, and sometimes I go and fuck someone I fancy. Got kicked out by your lover, huh?"

Yohji lit a cigarette to soothe his flaring temper. "Just like you?"

Schuldig bit his lip, his eyes slowly sizing Yohji up, drinking in every detail – boots, jeans, open fly, waistband almost slipping down over his hips; skimpy net tanktop under the formal shirt, and a too-small denim jacket that strained at his shoulders. "Take that bloody thing off," he snarled, stepping in to help solve the matter. "You look like an idiot with it."

Yohji seized him and entwined his long, hard hand with those silky red tresses. "Let off, Schuldig. I'm getting undressed myself, and you take care of your rags."

And then he caught a glimpse of a mark at the back of Schuldig's neck that had so far been hidden beneath layers of copper hair. A blackening welt that ran down to the shoulderblade, and there was a large bruise at the side of his neck too, showing clearly the imprints of fingers.

Yohji tugged the hair aside and slid his fingers over the bruises. "What's this?"

"Let off. Nice cut there at your throat, a little deeper and you'd not be here now. How did it happen?"

Wryly, Yohji smoothed Schuldig's hair back over the abused skin. "Fell down the stairs," he snorted, close enough to the truth, and earned a cross grin.

"Yeah, me too."

Perhaps it did not matter whether he closed his arms round the redhead now or not. Colours and time were but distant notions. Schuldig was here. Willing. Dangerous. A mind woven of darkness and twilight. A man with very earthly needs and desires, one of them apparently being Yohji who twisted his mouth in a lopsided smile. That would be Aya's poetic vein… Schuldig leaned against him and placed both of his hands together on Yohji's shoulder. Fingers still knotted into long red hair, Yohji shook his head. "What is it you want?"

"I want what HE has," came the hissed answer, so heavy with jealousy and a surge of anger that a spike of pain lanced into Yohji's mind… and through his shoulder where the redhead squeezed his flesh harshly.

Reluctantly, Yohji lifted his free hand and began to rub slow circles over Schuldig's back that felt scrawny under his touch. Just don't piss him off any more now… "What about Crawford?"

"Nothing to do with this," Schuldig muttered against Yohji's neck.

"As in, you are done with him, or he has no time for you?"

"That one," Schuldig mumbled vaguely. "This is nice…" He let out a gasp when Yohji's hands scooted lower and met at the small of his back, pressing slightly down on his spine.

"Then why not leave?" Yohji whispered as he leaned down to touch the top of Schuldig's ear with his lips.

No answer, but Schuldig squirmed, and Yohji could tell even now it was with a mixture of pleasure, anger and sadness Yohji believed to recognise. Schuldig loved Crawford? He stashed this piece of deduction away in some recess of his brain that had not been fogged up by alcohol. Crawford, of all people… Oracle… how on earth could anyone like that piece of rock… might as well try to fuck a knife…

Startled, he stumbled against the wall behind him when Schuldig suddenly pushed him away and took a step back, towards the bed, his eyes fastening on Yohji's, his lips parting a little. "You have no idea, have you… now watch," he breathed, crossing his arms to take hold of the hem of his sweater. He slowly pulled it over his head, his hair flying and glistening with small electric charges like a miniature thundercloud, a crackling halo round his pale face. He was as white as Aya but much skinnier, only just on the right side of gaunt.

Regaining his balance, Yohji meant to say something unpleasant, call Schuldig some choice names to thrash him, but the words stayed stuck in his throat when he saw the hunger, the unconcealed longing in those ice blue eyes. Schuldig was not a happy man – hey, something we've got in common, Yohji mused dazedly, and hell, he doesn't look this bad...

Schuldig's hands scooted down to the waistband of his denims, deftly undid the button fly and let the garment drop. He wore skimpy black briefs underneath. And he was most definitely hot.

Yohji swallowed around a dry mouthful of smoke. He felt his skin prickling all over, heat rising from his fingertips and toes, flowing through his body to pool in the one place he had tried to ignore since Schuldig had forced that kiss upon him. He grappled to recall what Aya had told him, about being too soft, being hand-fed, and the way Aya had wound up after receiving 'treatment' by Schuldig. But Yohji was also very drunk, very wrought up and damn near to breaking apart as he tried to remember just what had become of his reason to return to Weiss.

The cigarette stub seared his fingers and was dropped with a hiss, and all thought went up in a white-hot blaze as Schuldig sank to his knees and undid Yohji's trousers quicker than the blond could prevent it. "Want you," Schuldig breathed, shoving the pants down to Yohji's ankles, effectively hobbling him, and then firm hands pressed Yohji's hips against the wall while a hot, wet mouth took him in to the root.

Yohji threw back his head, thudding hard against the wall, and dug his hands into Schuldig's hair. Ah, this hair, so soft, so rich, this clever mouth that sent spears of fire through his groin – Yohji felt his eyes turn up and his mouth open, unable to breathe, or to make a sound… He did manage to draw air with a deep, desperate gasp as his knees buckled. Schuldig caught him, slipping warm hands up Yohji's ribs, up to his armpits to hold him, break his fall, ease him down to the floor and tug down his jeans a bit more before Yohji clamped a long, hard hand around Schuldig's wrist. "Stop that," he choked out.

Schuldig let off only to push his hand into the pocket of the denim jacket Yohji had worn, Yohji screwed his eyes shut and tried in vain to suppress a wry grin. Aya would not have lube there. He would allow Yohji to do with himself what he liked, but Aya did not do lube, he preferred to tear and hurt and bleed, curse him, and Yohji had invented a whole array of tricks to slicken him up on the rare occasions Aya wanted him on top, although sometimes...

A tug at his watch and the whirring of wire shocked him into snapping his eyes open.

To stare at Schuldig who sat back on his haunches, between Yohji's thighs, an uncoiled harigane in his hands and a strange, hot gleam in his eyes as he met Yohji's glance.

xxx

Harshly sobered, Yohji sucked in his breath with a hiss. Schuldig's pale lips curved in a slight smile as he lifted the wire. He was built lightly enough for Yohji to be able to overcome him, but the wire in those capable, determined hands meant they were on a par now. If Yohji could pin his wrists though and throw him onto his back-

He lunged before finishing the thought, and found himself on top of the redhead whose wrists he pressed against the floor. But Schuldig still held on to the wire that stretched tautly between his fists, crossing his throat in a fine, red and silver line. A trickle of crimson slipped into a flood of bright copper. Yohji felt no resistance. He tightened his grip when he felt the body beneath him shift, but Schuldig only raised his thighs on either side of Yohji and tilted his hips, a barely noticeable increase in pressure against Yohji's crotch.

"I'd like you-" Schuldig began, his throat moving and bleeding more as the wire cut deeper. He moaned, eyes misting over as he moulded against Yohji who watched in a mixture of fascination, lust and horror. With Schuldig's next motion, he could not help but rock against this willing body to find him opening wider, angling one long leg over Yohji's hip so that their groins rubbed against one another. "Want you to..." he groaned softly, and Yohji suddenly let go of him and, with trembling hands, pried the wire from his fingers.

"Man, Schuldig," he gasped at another push, "I wanna live awhile yet…"

Schuldig caught his hand and squeezed hard, his eyes dragging open. "Then fuck me and finish me," he yapped. "I wanna feel... go... when... ah..."

"You're one sick idiot," Yohji groaned, reaching between them to bring Schuldig off.

"Yeah, so come... heal... me..." The latter somewhere between a snarl and a sob and a semi-crazed laugh, and then he reared up in silence, muscles locking, eyes closing, his mouth opening in a silent cry as he came all over Yohji's hand. Before he could slump, Yohji grasped him firmly, wrenching one long, continuous moan from him as he writhed fruitlessly for purchase.

And just as Yohji was about to lose it, with the familiar wave of heat rising and knotting deep in his groin, ready to crash and tear through him to wash away the remnants of his cool and sanity, shaky fingers pressed the handles of the crossed, looped wire back into his clenching hands. Schuldig dragged him down against his heaving body, covering his face in kisses as he hissed, "Now, Bali, pull it tight now!"

And then lust and fire ripped through Yohji's drugged brain with mindblowing force, wave after wave, tearing him apart, and as he slumped forward hard to brace his arms to either side of Schuldig's face, he could not help but hold on to the thing he had been offered even as he felt blood wet his fingers and his lust soil his own clothes.

xxx

Next chapter: Bare II – Schuldig and Yohji


	18. Chapter 18 Bare II

**18. Bare II – Schuldig and Yohji**

He had fucked Schuldig. Almost. Close enough. In all but name, and it was not his fault he had not accomplished the deed.

Good grief.

Yohji sobered up immediately the searing rush subsided. Still throbbing, Yohji propped himself onto one arm to stare down at the harm the wire had done. "Ohgodohgodohgod," he chanted under his breath as he wiped bloodcaked strands of red hair from the slim neck to swiftly gauge the damage. Schuldig cracked open clouded eyes when Yohji passed firm fingers over his skin with the enforced calm of a soldier assessing a situation gone wrong.

"You bastard," Schuldig wheezed, his arms falling wide open, hands thudding on the floor. "Why d'you chicken out…"

Panting, Yohji sat back smartly on his haunches, still staring at him, trying to read him. Shock and the last fading heat of the act tingled through him, and in spite of himself he realised that he was curious what else he would find behind the snarl that distorted the pale, freckled face. Schuldig did not glare as Aya would have, his gaze had a different quality when he was like this, a lingering, latent kind of malice, strangely mixed up with despair and physical pain and so much anger that Yohji wondered why it did not burst this handsome head. And suddenly, Schuldig jerked up and lunged forward.

Yohji had thoughtlessly gathered the wire that was now glistening in his hand, but he reacted by instinct and managed to catch Schuldig's wrists, cluthing them with one hand while the sharp string tightened round them. Schuldig was raving, releasing a blast of expletives as he struggled frantically against the blond who dragged him up, and against his steely bonds.

"Stop this, idiot," Yohji ranted, pressing him close to trap those bound hands between their bodies, "or you gonna cut your tendons."

Naked, bleeding and cranked up beyond reason, Schuldig fought, and Yohji kept his tight, hard hold. Sweat began to gather on his upper lip, at his temples, and trickle in bitter rivulets down his face as he felt his strength fade – alcohol and exertion taking their toll at last. "What the hell is going on in this twisted brain of yours," he groaned, tired of struggling, of arguing, tired of everything. Finally, perhaps, tiring of his optimism that had begun to fade after the events of the last few days. "You got a plan, huh?"

Schuldig slowed down, tugging against the wire a few more times, but actually sagging against Yohji, his head swaying, then dropping on Yohji's shoulder.

That would be my shirt ruined, Yohji thought with vague annoyance. "You trapped Aya, to use me to get at Crawford who'll murder me slowly if he ever finds out about this here, not to mention your scary pet down by the car and his hobbies... or d'you want Aya and try to blackmail me into sleeping with your precious team leader so he's got a toy too... goodness, Schuldig, you're so sick, so damn sick, you're making my head spin too."

"Too complicated," came an exhausted sigh from the young man. "I just needed a good fuck before... before I'd go. I was ready to leave."

Yohji shook his head. "Really."

A brief silence followed, broken by Schuldig's pained whimper. Adrenaline wearing off after all, Yohji mused as he loosened his embrace enough for Schuldig to wriggle his hands. "Want this off now, hm?" He gently tugged at the wire, his eyes fastening on Schuldig's blue gaze.

Schuldig bit his lip. "This lover of yours," he then ground out slowly, earning a hostile, probing glance from Yohji, "he likes it... painful. I wanted... wanted to know..."

Yohji uncoiled the wire and grasped the abused wrists in one hand again while he stowed the weapon away into the breast pocket of his shirt. "Let me tell you that I hate this sorta stuff." And, he added bitterly in his thoughts, now I know what is drawing Aya back, and I think I understand this thing you've got with Farfarello, and it's so damn sick it makes my skin crawl.

He stared at Schuldig who suddenly looked lost and bothered, and unthinkingly Yohji lifted his free hand to smooth some hair from the redhead's cheek and neck. A tender, sparse gesture he would have lavished on Aya in better times. "Here," he said, watching Schuldig's eyes widen in surprise, "that wasn't too bad, was it?"

xxx

Sinking down against the wall by the bathroom door, Schuldig watched him dress, and when Yohji groped for his cigarettes in the carelessly discarded jacket on the floor, Schuldig held the packet and two cigarettes up between his slender fingers. "Don't…"

Yohji, stooped over the jacket to shake it out, paused to look at the younger man. Schuldig made no move to get dressed. Still bleeding from the rather deep cut across his throat, a smear of red down to his chest where he had wiped his fingers over the wound and dragged them over his skin, copper hair mussed and eyes dull, he looked shattered. Yohji took the cigarette – lit, he noticed unsurprised – from him and picked up the jacket.

"Don't go yet," Schuldig choked out, wrapping his arms round his drawn-up knees and shooting an angry, unhappy, calculating glance at Yohji. And then, "Please. Please don't go yet. Please stay a little, just a short while, don't leave me here now by myself…" Each plea more urgent, words slurring, faltering, stumbling over each other as he scrubbed the back of his bloodied hand across his face in a nervous, agitated gesture, his eyes following Yohji's every motion as he straightened and folded the jacket over his arm.

The rushed whispers contrasted strangely with the stillness of Schuldig's crouched form. As though every movement would hurt, or result in an all-out explosion, Yohji thought uneasily, and hell, Schuldig was either utterly desolate or stunningly good at acting this out. Hand-feed you, Aya's bitter words stabbed at his mind.

"Please, don't leave now, please…" Schuldig's voice became a ragged chant, his eyes glittering, vivid crimson stains flecking his cheeks, and suddenly Yohji realised that perhaps, the young man was not talking to him at all.

Damn all visions and anything that messes with your sanity, Yohji thought with a shiver and something remotely resembling compassion. He swatted it back into the black corner of his mind from where it had crept. Smoothing out the jacket, he turned towards the door, the muttering behind him intensifying until it began to fill up his brain and make his head ache. In a fit of nausea, he leaned against the wall and felt Schuldig's thin hand curl around his ankle. Please stay, please... I hurt, my head, I hurt, please stay, make it go away, it hurts so much, it didn't a moment ago, when you loved me, when you cut me, oh please… voices, noise, pain… so much… pain…end it… pain…

Too much. It was too much, sinking into Yohji with icy force and rattling his resolve to go. He sucked at his cigarette and pressed a shaking hand against his temple, but before he could figure out what to do next, a rap at the door startled him enough to pull away from the feeble grip.

"Schu?" they heard Farfarello's voice, breathless with concern. "Schu, pretty, you hurt?" And then a low growl, "Kill. You hurt, I kill."

The pleas stopped as though cut off with a knife. Yohji stared at the door and believed he heard the soft swish of fabric sliding against wood, or the touch of a questing hand trying to find a way in. The doorknob turned somewhat, then slipped back. Locked. Yohji could not help to breathe a tight sigh of relief as his glance returned to Schuldig.

Whose face went blank as he rose to his feet and disappeared into the shower room. Water sloshed into the sink, and minutes later he emerged washed and combed, sank to his knees by the bed to drag out some clean clothes from underneath, and dressed with swift efficiency. When he was done buttoning up a fresh pair of blue jeans and tugging straight his new black t-shirt, he calmly met Yohji's eyes. "Shall we let him in then?" he said, faintly mocking.

Yohji stared, dumbfounded, and felt fooled. With an effort, he shook off the odd mood and forced a harsh smile onto his lips. "I'm up to it." He tapped his wrist, a warning, a threat, and he saw in Schuldig's eyes that he understood.

"You hurt him, and I'm gonna kill you," the redhead said quietly, hands dangling loosely by his sides. Then he shrugged lightly, a sarcastic grin tugging at his thin lips. "We just do this for one another."

"Seems I can't win," Yohji remarked acidly, "the two of you really have it in for me." He made a step towards the window, but Schuldig blocked his way with one swift, smooth motion. For the briefest of moments, a flash of torment twisted his face and darkened his eyes, before they hardened again, frosty little crystals beneath the fiery mane.

"Yohji," he said, the husky tremor in his voice not matching his face. "I hoped you'd-"

Another rap at the door shook them apart, Yohji using the moment to slip away while Schuldig was briefly distracted. Swinging himself out of the window, he heard Schuldig curse, and then the door banged open and he dropped to the tarmac and ran without looking back.

xxx

Next chapter: But it hurts... – Schuldig and Farfarello


	19. Chapter 19 But It Hurts

Hi folks,

**Comtess**, thank you for another mindblowing rev. Love them, especially because you tell me why you like the stuff I write. You're my star, and I finally got the motivation to finish this story. **Vampire Queen**, thanks for the note; glad to see you're sticking around with FL.

Anyhow, hope you have fun, folks. I'll be away this week with no access to boyfriend, no web, and no time to do any writing, but I'll be back soon (before he gets withdrawal symptoms or - heaven forbid - starts to enjoy himself too much without this fanboy to keep a jealous eye). Have fun with Far and Schu in this one; the chappie after this one is going to be a bittersweet, romantic Aya and Yohji one.

Cheers  
LH

xxx

**19. But it hurts... – Schuldig and Farfarello**

"Guilty, pretty," Farfarello breathed, taking the redhead's hands and briefly lifting them for a gentle, worshipping touch of scarred lips against pale skin, before brushing back the red mane and tracing the bloodless features with shy reverence. "You hurt. I catch. I kill."

Schuldig caught the hand that curled cautiously around the back of his neck, and pressed it against his cheek. "No. I'm fine." He drew a deep breath and managed a grin. "You got any food for us?" He made to turn away, but the scarred man held on to the front of his shirt, and the collar sprung open, revealing the angry red line Yohji's wire had carved across Schuldig's white throat. Farfarello's eyes narrowed, and a glittering fire melted his single golden pupil even as he licked over his lips. "You hurt!" His tone changed from tender to accusing, and he fisted his hand in the fabric.

Schuldig stood stone still. "I am fine," he repeated coolly, nailing Farfarello's glance with a hard stare. "I don't want him dead. Crawford was quite clear about this. You wanna get that head of yours sorted, huh? I sure do, and we might need all the help we can get, even if it's from Weiss."

"No Weiss," Farfarello spat, leaving no doubt as to what he thought about their opponents. "Only us. Brad, boy, you, me." His expression softened as he tugged at Schuldig's arm. "Only us," he repeated, a strangely lost look slipping over his distorted features. This time the redhead gave in and slumped into the scarred youth's harsh, desperate hug.

"Cracked," Farfarello commented in a whisper, and Schuldig nodded, face buried against his friend's shoulder.

"Hell, yeah, we're all so cracked up," he muttered, not quite steady.

"Not make it," Farfarello mumbled roughly.

"Shhh." Schuldig looked up, combing his fingers through short white hair as he sought the amber gaze. "We will. All of us, if Craw gets his way. We'll make it."

"Me…"

"Hey, I'm not gonna let you cop out." A smile stole over Schuldig's face and for a heartbeat, it almost warmed his eyes before they iced over again. "We will make it, even if I have to go to hell and back."

Farfarello seemed to consider this for a moment, then he gestured towards the bed. "Later. Sleep?"

A shiver ran through the redhead as he pondered the connotations, but then he nodded. "You must be as knackered as I look."

"You, hungry."

Schuldig writhed out of Farfarello's embrace and shook his head. "Sod that. My damn head is banging like a shrine gong, let's try and get some sleep; we'll need it before we get back to Brad." He scooted to the door to make sure it was locked, then he went to plop down on the mussed bed. "Don't complain 'bout the smell," he warned as Farfarello stepped closer.

A small grin tugged at Farfarello's mouth as he slipped onto the bed and pulled Schuldig down with him. "Fun?" he breathed into copper-bright bangs, and a chuckle was his answer as he spooned around his companion. He nudged Schuldig to face the wall and tucked the comforter in around his narrow form before propping his own head on his fist and wrapping the other arm tenderly around Schuldig's shoulder, one bony white hand splayed on his narrow chest. "Sleep. Now," the youth commanded softly, and the young man closed his eyes, sighing softly as splinters of noise, pain and restless anger faded into a semblance of safety and warmth.

**xxx**

_Enough._

Schuldig groaned groggily and turned on the narrow bed. The sheets were dank and smelled of sweat and what had happened earlier, when Yohji… _no, not going there…_

_Come home now._

Shut up, Schuldig thought dazedly, still refusing to open his eyes. A dull ache pulsed from his backside up his spine, and a sharp, burning pain crossed his throat. He lifted his hands to fumble over the hurting flesh, and jerked up when he touched the cut Yohji's wire had inflicted.

"Home, pretty?"

The buzz of other minds flooded back into his brain, along with the never-ending headache. He pressed his hands to his temples for a moment, before he focused on Farfarello who sat crosslegged on the ground by the door. Leaning back comfortably, the scarred youth played idly with a specimen from his knife collection, his eye intent on Schuldig who tried to gather himself while assessing all the bruises and aches that throbbed through him.

"Home?" Farfarello insisted gently.

"I heard you," Schuldig grouched, before drawing a deep breath to suppress a fit of gagging, brought on by too much nicotine, coffee and a lack of food as his churning stomach informed him.

"Heard Brad," Farfarello countered.

_Leave this dumphole. Now. Need you here._

Schuldig scrambled to his feet. _Yes, Brad_, he snapped wordlessly, _I am on my bloody way already…_

_Don't swear at me._

Schuldig gasped in exasperation, but swallowed an angry outburst. He began to strip the bed of the soiled linen, a disgusted frown wrinkling his brow as he bunched up the dirty sheets and took them into the bathroom where he dumped them into the shower for later treatment. Fresh bedding from a neat stack underneath the bed soon covered the mattress and the comforter. Contentedly, he smoothed them out. A small smile curved his lips, and a spark gleamed in his blue gaze when he turned to his companion who had observed him all the time. "D'you have fun, Far?"

A grunt was all he got for an answer, but Farfarello's knuckles suddenly turned white as his fingers cramped around the hilt of the knife, and he jammed the blade into the floorplanks. "You hurt. I kill."

"Now, now," Schuldig slithered across to him and gathered him in a quick, friendly embrace. "You don't wanna spoil my nice plan, do you? Yohji's sweet 'n smart, tough enough for a bit of roughing, just fun to play with, yanno – stupid toys don't please me, and I don't like it when they're whiny and break too quickly."

Farfarello stiffened. "Hurt you."

Schuldig quickly ruffled through the soft white stubble on his head and then rose, pulling Farfarello up as well. "Yeah, that he did." _Though no more than Brad, damn him. No one can hurt me like Brad_, his mind milled on before he could clamp down on those wayward thoughts. "We'll have to punish him sometime, but not now. Brad's gonna be cross if we're not back soon."

"In here," Farfarello growled, placing his flat hand over Schuldig's heart even as he was lifting his other hand to thoughtfully trace the burning red line across Schuldig's throat with the tip of the knife.

Schuldig froze, and for a moment, they just glared at each other until Schuldig broke the sudden silence with a laugh that did not sound quite jolly. "Now, that's nonsense, Far," he drawled, carelessly shoving away hand and knife and reaching for the door. "C'mon, let's roll. We got things to do."

_About time, firehead._

Schuldig snorted crossly as he stalked down the few steps to the building's exit. _Get out of my mind, Brad_, he grumbled silently, _and do not call me that, dammit. Oh, and do stop chuckling…_

_Hurry._

Schuldig clambered into the passenger seat and lit a cigarette while Farfarello smoothly slipped in behind the wheel and turned the ignition key.

_My damn head's killing me._

Schuldig wondered whether that was Crawford talking in his head, or his own brain messing him about – he and Crawford understood one another well enough to do away with talking when the mood struck them – or whether he had said it out aloud because Farfarello gave him an odd look while they cruised through the busy streets. _Late morning_, Schuldig mused lazily, _did we sleep this long? What an exit for Yohji to make, and how shaken he had looked…_

A slight twinge of something closely approaching regret twisted in his stomach, but he brushed it off, trying to lose himself in the wash of noise that soaked his mind as he braced himself to face Crawford.

xxx

Next chapter: For your precious sake – Yohji and Aya


	20. Chapter 20 For Your Precious Sake

Many thanks to my regular reviewers - you keep this going, folks.  
Cheers, LH.

xxx

**20. For Your Precious Sake – Yohji and Aya**

The tatami clad room was still, light filtering mutedly through the drawn bamboo blinds. Yohji slipped in, clicking the door shut behind him, and then the last of his will and strength just faded from him and he sank to his knees.

He felt drained, unpleasantly lightheaded, his limbs heavy as though a ton of bricks had come down on him. He had scraped himself together enough to take a long, scalding shower to scrub off Schuldig's smell and the pong of that night's activity, as though this could help erasing every scrap of memory too. Images of chill, haunted blue eyes and a smile that teetered between sad and manic, the sound of a smooth, cool voice somewhere between laughing and crying. Schuldig had managed to surprise him in more than one way – it was not Farfarello from whom Yohji had bolted…

…to wander restlessly through the neon-glaring streets, quite out of his head as though he had taken in more than alcohol, until he found himself by the harbour again. He stood staring up at the skeleton of the structure where he had perched on that lofty girder, five storeys above the ground, wedged between a psycho and a nutcase. The whole thing seemed utterly surreal, as mad as the last few days, a jumble of impressions, intense and glittering like a daunting kaleidoscope.

When he finally was too tired to go on, he had turned his steps back to the Koneko, ingrained instincts leading him to criss-cross his path until he could be sure that no one had followed him. He ran into Omi in the kitchen and wondered whether the young man had stayed up all night – shadows pooled around his eyes, and his face was pinched. Omi merely gave him an appraising gaze, expression closed, eyes shuttered, and turned away to pour him a mug of coffee. Yohji did not know what to say. Omi did not wait for a lie but went to open the shop. Yohji heard Ken talking with him in the back of the shop, his tone tense and rather cross, and Omi's firm reply, but he could not make out the words.

Sometime soon, Yohji mused uneasily, he would need to talk to the chibi. Try for some understanding and, more vitally, figure out what would happen to Aya next. Omi seemed so unexpectedly implacable... How odd, it floated through Yohji's mind, that the two younger men seemed so much more in tune with themselves than him and Aya…

Right now though he was kneeling near the threshold he had just crossed, and breathed in deeply the grassy scent of the woven mats, the whiff of wood polish, mingling with the slight pong of cold incense. Here in the shabby, painfully tidy sanctuary of Aya's room, Yohji let his mind go blank, inviting the stillness of the place to seep into him.

With the familiar silence, memories returned: of the day Aya decided that Ran had died, taking along his love for his partner, and how Yohji had spent endless hours walking the streets until he was too exhausted to know where else to go, where to run from the stark reality of Weiss. Like this morning, he had returned to the Koneko, and when he walked into Aya's room, sudden calm had flooded him. For here, in this room, Ran was still present, however strenuously Aya might deny it.

For he was present in the sparseness of the plain white walls and straw green mats, in the simple, steel-rimmed reading glasses and the collection of tanka, bound in raw silk – a leftover of another life, the scrap of a lost dream. Ran was here when Aya changed from the layers of protective leather and bullet proof vest into the grey yukata he wore with a ceremonial elegance that would have suited a formal kimono ensemble. And he was Ran when his feet, those small, birdlike feet slipped on the pair of geta that stood in a corner of the shower to softly clatter about the house.

Back then, when he had felt his hopes beginning to slide away, when he had been searching desperately for a sign, a clue, Yohji had taken to study Aya and this room. He had scrutinised the smallest detail as if to investigate the scene of a crime. He learned to read the signs that were intimately personal to Ran. He began to seek quiet solace in discovering more of those small touches that Aya was unconscious of because they were undeniably, unalterably him. Ran. Aya. The man Yohji had believed he knew and whom he had lost…

The flicker of a fading flame.

The sigh of a dying dream.

As though their past together had never been.

Refusing to surrender, Yohji seized this sliver of hope without hesitation and ploughed his energy, his affection and care into discovering his partner anew. Only to find that he was not sure anymore whether his strength would last long enough to accomplish his goal: to reclaim Ran. How could he, if Aya was determined to abandon him?

Still kneeling by the door, Yohji took some time to soak up the atmosphere of the dusky room. Tranquility. Stillness. It calmed his sore mind and soothed the dragging pain in his chest. He drew a deep, slow breath before he began to shuffle on his knees towards the futon near the window.

Clad in his black drawstring trousers and a black, soft cotton vest – his usual practice attire – Aya lay on his stomach, legs spread, arms by his sides, hands fisted loosely in the sheets. He had his face turned slightly into the small square pillow, and his tousled fringe stirred softly with every slow, even breath. But Aya lay way too still, too relaxed, and Yohji was not fooled into believing him asleep. Instincts honed by years of their kind of work would have woken Aya long before anyone approached him this close. For a while, Yohji just knelt by his side, longing to touch, gather him up and shake him back to life. Yet in spite of his easy pose, Aya radiated forbidding distance.

Because he utterly refused to acknowledge Yohji's presence – he did not stir, his breathing remained steady, his eyes closed.

"Ayan?" Yohji breathed, wanting, longing, and acutely aware that touching Aya now could mean setting off a tighly coiled spring, just waiting to snag him, bring him down, cut his throat… Yohji wanted to live. There was no sense in dying when everything inside him screamed for life, light, colour, joy… Aya had to see this, surely? Even Schuldig saw it. Hell, even Farfarello knew, taking his childish pleasure where he could get it, from the nasty little games he and Schuldig liked to play, like overgrown, misbehaved children… Schuldig understood. Yohji wanted, needed to believe that sometime Aya would understand, if only he could get him to try…

He swallowed hard, the burning in his chest growing stronger. He was thirsty, longing for the coolness of a drink of water to draw the heat from his belly. Longing for the coolness of Aya's voice, Aya's touch… Yohji wrapped his arms around himself. "Aya…"

Aya made no reply. Aya did not accept hope.

And Yohji finally gave in to the fire within.

Aya did not shift when Yohji sank into himself and then doubled over into a tight crouch, finally yielding to the pain that ripped through him with mindblasting force. As bereft now as he had been before loving Ran, he was ready to surrender at last to his grief. He could think of nothing else to do; he had lost his battles, one after another, and now he was out of ammunition, and hope had gone awol, leaving him cold and alone. He, Yohji of many charms and talents, had lost all of them because he had failed to get through to Aya.

For once, he was lost for words. He was lost. He was alone, his mind stripped bare. And while he was groping blindly through the haze of sorrow, the terse verses of a tanka from Aya's book drifted into his mind.

They floated to his lips that began to form the sounds before he knew it. "For your precious sake-" Slow, halting, and yet… did he dare? Did he want this last fading spark of hope to rise again? He broke off, scrubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. Drew a deep, shaky breath, wondering… listening to the darkness beyond this sliver of light… and bit his lip. Tried again

"For your precious sake  
Once my eager life itself…"

A tremble rippled through Aya from head to toes, and his chest heaved in a pained sigh. Yohji held his breath, and the stillness of the room was complete… until a whisper rose, in Aya's deep, rich voice:

"…was not dear to me."

And in spite of himself, Yohji began to shake. He could not finish the tanka as he just crouched there, falling apart and still struggling. It was too much. Hollowed out, exhausted, hurting, he finally let go, to plunge…

…into Aya's arms that closed around him and drew him against soft sheets and a firm, warm body. "Inochi sae," Aya murmured into Yohji's hair, "Nagaku mo gana to..."

"But now it is my heart's desire," Yohji breathed.  
"It may long, long years endure," Aya softly chanted along with him.

His embrace tightened around Yohji who lay utterly still. Into the silence rose Aya's ragged moan, "Damn you Yohji…"

A numbing wave of relief washed over Yohji, and he wrapped his arms around Aya. Who simply melted into him, and Yohji held him so hard it hurt. "I love you too," he offered gently, his lips moving against Aya's warm skin, drinking in touch, taste, smell, drowning in Aya, sinking into Ran as tenderness awoke passion, and passion begot fire, a slow, longing glow that burned away past and future and left nothing but this moment.

Aya did not try to hurt him anymore.  
Their war was over.  
And Yohji firmly refused to think of anything else.

xxx

**NOTES:**

Tanka are a form of Japanese poetry. The one cited is by Fujiwara no Yoshitaka, no. 50 in a 19th century edition of Ogura Hyakunin Isshu '100 Poems by 100 Poets', and reads:

Kimi ga tame  
Oshi karazarishi  
Inochi sae  
Agaku mo gana to  
Omoi keru kana

For your precious sake  
Once my eager life itself  
Was not dear to me  
But now it is my heart's desire  
It may long, long years endure

If you like this kind of stuff, here is the link:

www DOT poetry DOT about DOT com SLASH od SLASH haikusenryutanka

xxx

Next chapter: Reassessment – Yohji, Omi, Manx


	21. Chapter 21 Reassessment

**21. Reassessment – Yohji, Omi, Manx**

xxx

In the 'mission room', a glorified cupboard next to the bathroom, with only just enough space for a workbench that served for a makeshift seat and occasional bed after a hurried make-out session, Omi leaned into the corner of the wall, the laptop on his knees, his gaze shifting coolly between Yohji and Manx who stood by the door. Arms folded, head thrust forward, she did not look friendly despite having chosen a rather feminine outfit – a smart red trouser suit complemented by matching pumps, and glossy lipstick that made her lips look very inviting… like a ripe, candied cherry.

Yohji squirmed. He was sure she would bite, in a not so nice way, if she got the slightest inkling of what had crossed his mind.

"Keep your mind out of the gutter, Bali," she snapped promptly, and he heaved a sigh – was he this transparent? He would have to work on it.

Omi's mouth twitched in an unkind smirk. Yohji thought this unsettling. The boy should have blushed at least, but he took all of this way too calm. The mess they were in. That Omi had tried to execute Aya only a few days ago, and the thing with Schuldig... Perhaps it was time to think of Omi as a young man, rather than 'the boy'. For some reason, this caused Yohji to rub a hand over his chest in slow, firm circles, as if this could help the nagging ache that had been sitting there for some time now.

"Are you done pondering and ready to focus?" she sniped. "We did know that there could be problems, hell, we knew there would. Just looking at your dossiers spelled trouble with capitals."

"Then why did you bother in the first place?" Yohji bit out, his patience wearing thin. He would not need to fluff around with her either, she knew how to take as well as to shoot. Somehow annoying, refreshing, and utterly sad for it reminded him of Asuka. Of Neu. He was sure that this had been her intention all along, but sometimes he did not care and let her see his hurt. Sometimes, when it did not matter what would happen next because it was of no concern to him… this was not him. Balinese was not Yohji. Sometimes… he lost Yohji somewhere in this warped tangle of a life, and had trouble finding him again.

And on very rare occasions, Balinese wondered whether Yohji was still worth the bother.

"Hey," she spat. "You with me?"

"You deaf?" he groused. "So why?"

"Because you had the skills, the brains, and you were all susceptible to a little bribery," she all but sneered. "We only needed to enable you to act out all of your vengeful little plans, and the rest fell into place. Did it not?"

Yohji fumbled for his cigarettes and lit one. On second thought, he offered one to Manx. None of this was personal, after all. Corporate disagreements… Crawford would like the term.

Yohji felt his mouth twitch in a half-smile. It still surprised him that Manx accepted the smoke, although without thanks, and began to smoke in long, deep draughts. Did she need to calm herself? Yohji watched, with renewed interest – perhaps she would give away some detail, some scrap of information without knowing, something to catch her and allow him to break away from the stranglehold Kritiker seemed to have over Weiss.

Yohji was with him, after all. Good. Reassuring, Balinese, keep your ass covered…

She had mentioned Neu some time ago, and every time he met her, Manx seemed so full of gall that she almost let her professional manners slip.

So… was it personal after all? He had put it down to her disdain for his lifestyle, but then Omi was hardly an angel and growing out of chibi cuteness rather quickly, and Ken with his choice of weapon and his flaring tempers... not to mention Aya.

"Well, it did, kinda," Yohji replied cautiously, twiddling the cigarette in his fingers as he held her frosty gaze. "Except that you've hit zero now. We're falling to pieces."

"You are worse than I thought," she ground out, the gleam of disdain deepening into something darker in her eyes, "so petty, Balinese."

"I don't like being manipulated," he retorted, getting angry in spite of himself. "The stunt you pulled on Bombay-" He swallowed the rest when he caught Omi's glance.

"It was no stunt," the young man said quietly. "I had an order. I failed to accomplish it only because it was countermanded after your, uh, meeting with Schwarz became known."

Yohji leaned back, resting his shoulders against the cool wall behind him, and tried to calm his flitting thoughts. Omi had meant to murder Aya on Kritiker orders, Schwarz had known and stopped the whole thing from happening – probably not just because Schuldig had suddenly found it in his heart to be responsive to Yohji's plea – and Manx was telling him they now had thought it over...

"So what's gonna happen to us?" he asked, trying hard to sound calm.

She blew a stream of smoke from her nose and nailed him with another glare. "It won't be a surprise to you that Persia is not amused. However, your team leader still believes he can fix Weiss. He consulted with us after you dragged Schwarz in against your own team, and we opted for giving him a chance to prove himself."

Yohji grasped it immediately. Omi had put his neck on the line, or Kritiker had bullied him into doing so. He flicked a glance at the young man who gave him a cynical little smirk. No, he decided, Omi had in all likelihood volunteered. He knew that, as soon as this arrangement became known, Ken would stand by Omi with even more conviction than before. They were playing on Aya's soft spot for the lad to pull him back in. That would leave Yohji who was tired of it all and preoccupied in strange ways, involving errant thoughts of a certain flame haired man with a sibilant accent.

Yohji could almost bodily feel the wedge Kritiker had driven between him and Aya on one side, and Omi and Ken on the other. "How convenient," he murmured, feeling defeated and not bothering to hide it. There was no hiding from Manx' sharp eyes and tongue-lashings anyway, particularly not when he felt that somehow he deserved them.

"Yes. It is. So tell me," Manx said around another mouthful of smoke, "how do you propose to clear up this... situation?"

"Which one?" he asked unthinkingly and gave himself a mental slap when her eyes, those eager, expressive eyes, lit up.

"Assessment skills, Bali," she lectured, "How would you prioritise?"

"Stop grilling me," he said flatly, "just say it. I'm listening, and I'll be good."

She exchanged a quick glance with Omi. They definitely had some understanding here, Yohji thought with a good measure of bitterness. He had always wanted to believe the lad confided in him, but the last few days had shown a side of Omi he did not know, and did not like. Not really. It scared him because it had so completely slipped his attention – Omi had become a skilful actor indeed.

And he had proven that, when it mattered, he could be as hard as nails.

But then, Bombay had been in the game for much longer than the rest of them. He had been raised to play it, he knew the rules, the shortcuts and the price to pay if it went wrong. Being ruthless was not just the preserve of Aya or Yohji.

Had he merely used their big-brother affection?

Yohji shifted uncomfortably to bring some distance between him and Omi, if only an inch or so.

"I'd like to hear it from you, Bali," Manx said, her eyes intently on him again. "And I'd like you to tell us what you believe can save your ass and that of your team mates after you fucked with Schwarz. Tell me what you think of Abyssinian."

Yohji knew he was sweating. He felt cold and hot at the same time, stuck in the claustrophobic box with Omi and Manx who radiated so much hostile energy it almost seared him. "He's had problems."

She said nothing, just waited, smoking calmly.

"He'll settle," Yohji went on unwillingly, "given a chance. I'd vouch for him if you need it."

"Bombay has already done that, or why do you think we didn't disband Weiss as yet? You were supposed to be the solution, not the problem. Who are you screwing with?"

Something flashed through Yohji's mind almost too quickly to catch, a cool touch, a thought that was not his, and when he blinked and rubbed his temple, this fleeting touch bubbled up into his conscious. A new team, he thought, if Kritiker were so intent on keeping Weiss going in spite of all their quirks, they must be building a parallel team. Weiss had been given a breathing space to prove themselves useful, no more.

No less. Viewing it with Manx's eyes, Yohji understood. She scrutinised him, and he wondered whether she had planted this thought into his brain, or-

He gasped. The memory of this touch, the same, cool rummaging sensation in his mind... "If I told you that, I'd be toast," he quipped, playing his risk – if they got away this time, it meant that the other team was not ready yet. Omi might have told her what he suspected of Yohji and Schuldig. Or he might not. Kritiker still needed Weiss. "But maybe I just know things, because of our, well, skills?" He pulled off a saucy grin.

Predictably, she took ill to it. She looked pretty with angry red stains on her cheeks and flashing eyes. "Don't try that with me. I won't go where millions have been before me."

"Ouch," Yohji murmured, wisely refraining from upping her on that one. Persia was a good-looking man who had them all in the palm of his hand. It was simply unwise to tangle with him by upsetting her too much with innuendos.

Omi's smirk twitched a little. "Perhaps I should help my colleague here out," he said, his voice as gentle as always.

Just the little angel, Yohji thought with a renewed wave of bitter resentment. Butter couldn't melt in his mouth if you didn't know what he does for a fucking living... and even if you did know... oh, hell, what a mess…

"Go on," she said, without taking her eyes off Yohji.

"Abyssinian had a breakdown," Omi said dryly, as if summing up a mission brief, "brought on by stress, most likely triggered by his, uh, abduction by Schwarz. We still can't figure out exactly what happened. He's clamped down; I'd say it's a case of dissociative amnesia. Combined with a longstanding case of what I'd see as a schizoaffective disorder, he's a bit of a handful at the moment, but he's not had episodes as bad as this before. So I hope it might have been no more than that, a psychotic episode that we can rein in and manage accordingly. Or ride out."

Yohji gaped. The chibi was talking shrink jargon as though this was everyday stuff for him.

Omi shook a cigarette out of his packet. Manx had finished hers, but she tossed him a lighter. "Go on, Bombay," she ordered.

Lighting the cigarette, he nodded. "Siberian is stable, I'd say, given the circumstances, though he's got depressive episodes sometimes. Nothing to blow off the scale."

The understatement of the century, Yohji groused silently, swathing himself in smoke. He felt safer that way while Omi carried on in this cool, dispassionate tone.

"Myself – uhm, that's awkward, but I can't feel much at all. Repressed." He shrugged, his gaze dropping to the glowing tip of his cigarette for a moment, before he drew a harsh breath and looked up at her again. "And Balinese here," he nodded at Yohji without looking at him, "he's only too soft for his own good. The most normal guy Weiss have. I'd like to keep him."

Good grief. 'Normal' sounded like some kind of illness when Omi said it, and Manx sucked her lips in and finally deigned to give Yohji another all-over, her eyes cool again and flat.

Yohji swallowed. "I don't know... I mean, whether I wanna keep you, Omi," he choked out, his gaze fixed on his fingers that were playing with the almost-finished cigarette.

"Why?" the lad challenged quietly. "I'm trying to save your ass, Balinese. And Abyssinian's, whether he likes it or not. I have no choice really, though I could imagine easier folk to get along with. And I'll be damned if I can't make you lot work."

Omi was nineteen, Yohji reminded himself. Sweet, dewy nineteen, yet during the last few days, he had tried to bully Yohji into sleeping with him on a whim, gone back to sleeping with Ken without batting an eyelid, or so it seemed, accepted an order to shoot Aya at which he damn near succeeded, and concocted whatever plan it was with Kritiker to keep Weiss from bursting into tiny splinters of nothingness... This was no chibi.

And he had to think of the night Omi had come to him, seeking help in his despair, and he had sent him away. To Ken. It seemed like a distant dream now.

Yohji rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, let me get this straight. I am normal, thank you very much, the rest of us are not, you wanna keep us going even though we're shit, and you wanna know from me whether I'm gonna pull through or run off with Schwarz."

The silence between them was expectant. He swallowed, gathering himself. "Uh..." His skin prickled unpleasantly, he felt bothered and short of air.

Omi answered in his stead again, talking over Yohji's head to Manx, "He'll run nowhere, he'll keep working. He loves Abyssinian enough not to risk him."

Omi's tone was the slightest bit strained, and his words a little clipped, and when he was done, he pressed his lips together in a tight line for a brief moment as though he tried to swallow whatever else was about to slip. That he did not understand this. That he hated it. That his dislike for Aya, latent from the day he realised Yohji had grown fond of the redhead, had matured into something deeper and much more intense even though he hid it rather well... or so he had thought until the evening Yohji sent him to Ken.

It might have surprised Yohji himself that he found himself looking for more than a fling with Aya. But to Omi, having to compete with Aya for Yohji's affection meant the loss of someone who had replaced his family. The loss of his friend, confidant, brother, father and mother. So Omi had set out to prove, once and for all, that he had grown from a child, lost for all his cool and cunning, into a man. Aya was blind enough to provide the perfect opportunity for him.

Yohji wasn't buying it.

Damn him. Damn Yohji and his easy ways.

In the thickening silence, he glanced at the blond.

Yohji avoided Omi's gaze. He felt his eyes burn, betrayal cutting deeply, way too deep, making him bleed. Yet Omi had stated no more than the truth, and suddenly Yohji realised that Manx's face had softened – just enough to show – and her mouth relaxed somewhat. "We did take into account that more personal relationships might develop," she said, her gaze wandering between the two young men, "though I must admit, the problems... well, it was our mistake."

Yohji felt his heart lurch and thought he would surely die of a heart attack now. "What?" he gasped, groping for his cigarettes again.

She frowned. "Quit smoking, Bali, it ruins your skin. Wrinkles, you know?"

She had a weird sense of humour. Yohji wanted to recover from the series of shocks he had suffered in the last half hour, but did not quite dare to come up for air yet. "Yeah," he murmured, "it does…" …no more than the rest of the Weiss lifestyle. He drew a deep breath and straightened. "Bombay's right. I won't go anywhere. He's right about the reason, too."

She raised her eyebrows. "But?"

He rose to his feet. "I'd like to know why you picked us if you could foresee all this."

She gave him a hard look and a cold smile. "We needed smart people with spirit, principles and weaknesses."

"So you could break us?"

"And rebuild you in our own image? Man, Bali," she sighed, "we only brought out what was already in you. Only folk who want to believe they are on the right side are good to handle. Do you understand this? That's what we all want to believe. What we're clinging to. That all this is justified because we are doing it to the right people, for the right reasons. Not just for money. Now if you were working just for money, you'd be very unreliable for us."

"Who's telling you I'm not?"

She flashed him a bare-teethed grin, feral in its intensity. "Your heart?"

Which right now choose to cramp at her cynicism. "So you made sure you had a little something with which you'd leash each of us, huh?" he managed. "Aya's sister, Omi for Ken, some sort of no way out thing for the chibi..."

Omi's face hardened at this, but he remained silent.

"And Neu for you?" Her eyes narrowed. "Well, we all do what we can, ne? You have few options. Go with Schwarz, perhaps?" She watched him squirm. "I thought not. Go to prison? Not much better; your pretty butt wouldn't last through the first day at ass rape city. You might as well do some good in your fucked-up life."

"Who judges what's good?" he replied softly, and for a heartbeat, her eyes hooked into his gaze, and he saw another of those strange flashes of pain flicker over her face before she shook her head.

"Who knows. Aren't the guys you target vile enough? They deserve what they get; let it rest with this."

"What if some day this changes?" he prodded stubbornly.

She had no answer. Not this time. Had he worn her down, had he hit upon some secret she was skilfully hiding and of which she had, in that unguarded moment, let him catch a glimpse? He reached out for her. "Manx?"

She jerked back against the door and grabbed the handle. Yohji felt Omi rise behind him, whether to back him up or to stop him, Yohji could not tell and did not want to know. It took Manx a few deep breaths to recover her cold, professional face. "Don't do this ever again," she hissed softly, "don't touch me, or I'll make you pay." She whirled around and yanked the door open.

"We all have our ghosts then, have we?" he said to her back, watching her as she walked out into the hall, a couple of halting steps.

And then she stood still, her hands clenching by her sides, her head lowered and thrust forward in a gesture of defiance. "I have buried mine a long time ago, Balinese," she answered finally, half turning to regard him with a long sideways glance. "I have no intention to dig them up again, and I won't allow you to do so either."

"Was Neu one of them?" he prodded daringly. She would not murder him now, not if Kritiker wanted to keep Weiss. He had not expected a reply, and he got none. "Buried, huh? So," he stepped close and stretched his hand out again, though rather gingerly, wary of her reaction, "why not let ours rest too?"

His fingertips alighted on her shoulder, and to his breathless surprise, she did nothing. "Because," she held his eyes with a gaze that was still firm, but had lost its chill, "we all have work to do, and this is how I get you to do it."

"What keeps YOU going then?" he asked at the spur of the moment.

She regarded him quietly, before she said, "I believe in what I'm doing. I know how it feels to be helpless, never to be able to grab the right guys, having to look on as they get away with whatever they like. But I was not prepared to break. That's why I left the police and choose Kritiker. Asuka... she thought highly of you. You used to be good at your job." A small pause, then she lightly brushed off his fingers. "Go home, Balinese. To your team. Don't try to run from this, because you can't. None of us can."

Yohji stared after her as she walked out without looking back. There was more to her than met the eye. There was more to all of them, he mused when he felt Omi's presence and the reluctant touch on his arm. "C'mon," the young man said, "I'll make you coffee. You can ask me questions if you like."

xxx

Next chapter: Job Descriptions – Crawford and Schuldig


	22. Chapter 22 Job Descriptions

**22. Job Descriptions – Crawford and Schuldig**

Thank you to all my lovely reviewers – I am a bit slow updating at the moment; apologies for this, and thanks again for sticking around and sending me such great feedback. I hope you will keep enjoying the story.

Cheers

LH

xxx

"You always cause problems." Crawford tapped a pencil against the notepad on his tidy desk.

Schuldig watched, assessed – the motion was efficient, tight, focused as everything Crawford did, and he could not get into his mindset right now. He rarely could. "It's in my job description," he said rebelliously, and lit up. Crawford disliked cigarette smell.

Brown eyes pinned him with an impenetrable stare. Intelligent, handsome, cool brown eyes the hue of strong coffee. Schuldig loved Crawford's eyes. They rarely showed anything but frosty calculation. Sometimes, when the mood struck Schuldig, he could have sworn that it was those wonderfully cold eyes he had fallen for first, along with this chill, slightly mocking smile Crawford might show when he felt like it. A challenge, square and blatant…

And there was, always, the promise of violence. An undercurrent, strong and deep, never ceasing, sometimes erupting in nasty bouts when he had overdone it and pushed Crawford a tad too far… it kept him contained. It showed him his limits, sorely, badly, desperately craved edges to his mushy mind. Crawford could contain him. Schuldig shivered, an odd wave of lust and apprehension shuddering throug him. He gave himself over to it, from head to toe to crotch.

A small frown drew a hard line between Crawford's brows. "Concentrate. You should have been here instead of in that dump."

"It is MY dump. I own that place. I can do there what I like."

"I own YOU." The retort came swift, sharp, like a dart. "And unless you want to be left out, you will have to do as I tell you."

Schuldig blinked, and deflated. Crawford could not leave him out; they were Schwarz, they fed off one another, though sometimes, he also hated this flat stare enough to gauge out those brown eyes, if only to get a reaction. "Yeah, okay, I get it, Brad. 'Dyou sleep well?"

"And do not tease me. You know how I fucking sleep when you're out screwing or doing stupid things. You don't give a damn about endangering all of us."

Now that hurt. "Oh? Didn't you see what would happen?"

Crawford pressed his lips together in a hard line, and suddenly the pencil jabbed against the pad hard enough to get stuck in layers of paper and break off with a sharp snap. "I do not foresee everything, you know that very well. How's your head? And how did Farfarello take to seeing you bleeding?"

"Fine. And fine. He's in his cell dozing it off."

Before the ash could crumble onto the carpet, Schuldig caught it in the palm of his hand. Only just. Crawford merely kept glaring at him, until Schuldig snorted and fumbled for the almost empty packet to dispose of the ash, stopped short by a small gesture of Crawford – no more than a light lifting of his hand, authoritative and forbidding. Crawford did not do big motion; his kind of drama was distinctly low-key, sparse and chilling like a Noh play. And he disliked repeating himself.

They both paused, locking eyes, coffe-brown meeting ice-blue… and then Schuldig yielded. "Alright, Brad, here goes," he choked out. "My head's fuckin' killing me, has been those last few days, can't block, can't filter, don't know what the fuck I am, it's all ragged and blurry, and-"

"Who."

"Huh?"

"Who you are." Crawford shoved back the office chair and was by his side in a couple of long strides. He lifted his hands to cup Schuldig's temples, pressing down firmly. Cool, determined hands. Schuldig let his eyes drift shut. "Rest," Crawford commanded quietly. "Or it will drive you insane."

Schuldig snapped his eyes open and caught the tiny smirk that played over Crawford's thin lips. "Drive me…" He chuckled, then groaned, "You're as nuts as the rest of us."

"It takes a madman to know another," Crawford told him, and this time Schuldig was not sure whether his team leader was joking or indeed, as crazy as all of Schwarz.

"Why 're we not just wiping out Weiss?"

Brown eyes nailed his gaze. "Because," Crawford replied measuredly, "we may need a place to go some day."

A cold wave washed through Schuldig as the meaning sank in, and made him shiver. Crawford let his hands slide down his cheeks, over his abused neck and shoulders, to pull him close. Calm. Silence. Crawford meant stillness and determination, a resting point in a madly spinning blur of noise and colours, scraps of thoughts, the chaos he tried to figure as his own mind, and sometimes even a reprieve from the neverending headache that so relentlessly pounded what remained of his clarity.

"We may need... someone," Crawford said into the mop of copper hair that nestled against his chin. "We need to be sly."

"And reckless," Schuldig moaned into his shoulder, and felt a strand of his hair being tugged slightly.

"We do have an abundant supply of that, thank you very much. I'd rather be able to... predict things a bit more accurately. You tend to ruin this."

"Oh? And there I thought you foresee everything."

"You damn well know I don't, Schuldig." Another tug, not so playful this time. "But I do run this show, and I will continue doing so. Now, scrape yourself together. Pop some painkillers, they're in the bedside cabinet – I've restocked it for you; you should think of it yourself a bit more." The plucking became impatient. "And wash. You stink of... ah, forget it. Peel yourself off me and go to bed, you look like shit. I need you to get better to be of any use to us."

Schuldig refused to let go of the calm that enveloped him. "What's in it for you?"

Crawford's grip in his hair was somewhere between cross and tender. "Satisfaction," he replied simply. "I own Schwarz. No one owns me. Therefore," another tiny smile, "once we're done, no one will own Schwarz. No one, ever again." And then he leaned down and touched his lips to the redhead's temple. "We will heal. Your head, Far's mind, Nagi…"

Nagi's poor little soul, Schuldig caught the brush of a sensation that had slopped past Crawfords carefully kept façade, and wondered at just how impregnable it was despite the buffers. And you? he thought. What is it with you, Craw?

But only stillness answered him, the unruffled pulse of Crawford's mind, his steady heartbeat. Tranquility. Death…

Schuldig pushed out of the light embrace and scowled as faint echoes began to trouble his sore mind again. "Why exactly did you spoil my lay-in this morning? I thought you had an emergency of sorts?"

Crawford took off his glasses and began to polish them with a scrap of white silk from his suit pocket. "I didn't spoil anything."

"Oh, gimme a break, Craw!"

"I am merely concerned. I do not like you getting yourself damaged. And you damn well know that I don't like blood on you. You messed up my shirt."

Schuldig stared at him for a moment. A rustcoloured smudge stained the impeccable, stiffly starched white shirt Crawford wore with his suit of fine cream coloured wool. "I didn't ask you to snuggle up to me. Did you send Far to disturb us?"

Apart from the slightly changing rhythm of the cloth on the lens and the slight whitening of his nails as they pressed down onto the glass, Crawford betrayed no emotion. "No. But he knows you well enough, and I trust you two keep an eye on one another." He replaced the glasses and gave Schuldig an owlish blink. "We are a team, after all." He glowered briefly. "Now do as I told you. Go to bed. We have an assignment tonight, and I don't want any slip-ups."

Schuldig glared. "I'm not tired."

Crawford, already turning towards his desk, shot him a sharp glance. "Go. Sleep. It is likely that Weiss will be after our prey too."

"Who is it?"

"I will tell you at the briefing," Crawford replied implacably.

"My head hurts like hell. Let me stay at least." And with a note of exasperation, "Please?"

Crawford sunk into his office chair, rummaged through his desk drawer and placed two white tablets near the edge of the desk. "Take those." He focused his attention on the computer screen. "You can stay until Far wakes up."

Without another word, Schuldig took the tablets, then went to the window and simply crumpled onto the floor, where he curled up with his arms and knees drawn tightly against his belly, and his back pressed into the corner. Aided by the painkillers, he slipped off to sleep in a matter of minutes, twitching and fretting as his nightmares began to roll over him. Crawford interrupted his typing and rose to step across to the sleeping man, contemplating the pale features for a while as though he could reach right into Schuldig's mind, before dragging off his jacket and carefully placing it over Schuldig.

Sleep tight.

For tonight

our stars

will burn bright.

The rhyme floated through his thoughts, the echo of an old lullaby, yet it sounded twisted, with an odd undercurrent stirring beneath the seemingly innocent words. He sensed the heated touch of Farfarello's mind, the cold silence that was Nagi, and Schuldig's painful burn, and tried to figure out whose dreams he was listening to.

The bleeping of incoming mail on the computer broke the mood, and he opened the files Nagi had sent him. It appeared possible to be on target before Weiss. If he succeeded in getting the electronic files their man held on his computer system, he would be a tiny step closer to their goal…

Crawford smirked a little to himself. Their stars had never been bright. Their stars shone black and crimson, a cracked medley of blood and pain. He resented it. He resented being led by the nose by Eszet who had made them, for Brad Crawford disliked being led at all. And if Eszet meant to rule the world, as in his opinion they were planning to do, it would mean that they would keep their hold over Schwarz and its leader.

Keeping them as slaves to their broken minds, shackled to the hands of those who cracked them. Crawford had decided a long time ago that he had enough of that. He would be no one's ransom; Schwarz would benefit from his drive, and perhaps other people might appreciate the side effects of this very personal bid for freedom. He had no need for excuses – working for the greater good was the domain of Weiss, but he believed to know Kritker better than their own agents. No one worked for the greater good alone. Brad Crawford was ot afraid of admitting this to himself.

He sat down behind his computer again and resumed his typing. By thrusting Schwarz into his hands, Eszet had gotten more than they had bargained for because Craword had succeeded in making his team of hopeless misfits into a power to be reckoned with.

And one day, Eszet would be in for a nasty surprise.

Determination begot patience.

Crawford was a patient man.

xxx

Next chapter: Tension and Relief – Omi and Yohji, Yohji and Schuldig


	23. Chapter 23 Tension And Relief

**23. Tension and Relief – Omi and Yohji, Yohji and Schuldig**

Yohji sat at the kitchen table and turned a mug of coffee in his hands. Omi rummaged through the fridge, found some tofu and miso soup and heated both in the microwave. The kettle whistled, and finally Omi set a tray onto the table with two bowls of soup and tofu, and a mug of tea for himself.

"Go on," he said, settling on the chair opposite Yohji, "talk to me."

Yohji swirled the coffee in his mug and stared at the black fluffs that floated on the slopping surface. "I don't know what to say," he replied truthfully. "Perhaps you could tell me. Was this worth it?" He looked up and met hard blue eyes.

Omi's hands curled loosely around the base of his bowl, he leaned in his chair, his legs stretched out underneath the table, feet touching Yohji's. A small pause followed, before the young man drew a deep breath. "To save us? Ken, myself, you? Even Aya? You tell me, Yotan, 'cos you put me there. You and Aya."

The bitterness in his tone cut Yohji to the quick, and he looked up to see Omi's face, ashen and tense. "Would you have shot him, Omichi?"

Omi stared at him, and Yohji saw his eyes filling up at the pet name, but his voice was cold as he replied, "Aa. He brought it upon himself, and he nearly wiped us out."

"He's cracked," Yohji said slowly, "and we let him drop."

"We!" Omi yanked back his chair and with one violent swipe of his arm, sent bowl and mug flying. They shattered against the wall, shards and soup spattering over the cupboards and the floor. "We let HIM drop?" he yelled, turning on Yohji who had tensed and gripped the edge of the table, an air of readiness about him and dark determination in his eyes.

Omi did not care. "What about him letting us down? About you two idiots breaking us apart? Don't!" As Yohji began to rise, his hands coming up to touch, soothe, calm… or to grip, hard, and restrain… Omi squared off with the blond. "You made me do it!" he accused fiercely. "You! 'Cos you dumped me like a pile 'o shit when I needed you most! I had dreams, plans, hopes, and you sent them all to fucking hell!" He gave the chair a kick that banged it against the wall and cracked a leg. "So if I gotta do this fuckin' job for a lifetime, I'm gonna do it right, whether you like it or not, Yotan! I was so damn stupid to think I could lean on you!"

"But you can," Yohji said, his tone straining even though it was quiet. The ripple of quicksilver beneath a smooth surface, betrayed only by his lightly clenching hands.

"I've seen that alright!" Omi shot back. "You ran when it mattered. You ran to THEM of all people, and left me to it! He knew, Yohji, he knew what I meant to do! And to think… to think…" He swallowed, snorted, and dragged the back of his hand over his face, and finally, he dropped onto the chair by Yohji's side, buried his head on his folded arms and began to shake.

Yohji watched, listened to his harsh gasps that veered between laughing and crying, and felt hollow. "You think I hate you, Omi?"

"I would," the young man spat, his voice muffled.

Yohji forced himself to sound calm. "I can see your point. But I don't hold grudges. And I cannot let Aya go down like this, or let you do something you'd regret for the rest of your life. You get that? If I have to bed the enemy for this, then so be it."

"Don't give me that shit," Omi snarled. "I wish he'd go to hell. Aya never was a part of us 'cos he never wanted to be, and he hurts you."

Pained, Yohji pressed his hands around the mug. "I made my own choice. I'm not thick, Omi, now am I?"

"You damn well are." Omi sat up and scrubbed his sleeve over his face. "He might have been what you want him to be until that mission that cracked him. see Winding Down I But now he's the same as Schuldig, can't you see that? Nuts, both of them, and you... you... arrgh!" He jumped up and went to drink some water straight from the tap, running some over his face, and then wiped it off while turning the tap off with his other hand. "Man, Yotan, you got this thing 'bout wanting to get hurt that worries me."

Yohji was startled and tried to hide it. "Schuldig worries you, too?"

Omi stared at him for a moment. "No," he then said, his voice still shaky but the edge of hysteria was gone. "I still trust you. If we can find out what moves him, perhaps we can figure what Schwarz are all about because as far as I can see, we're alive by their leave only." He paused, sniffing and distractedly wiping his nose with his sleeve. "We have no issues with them beyond professional rivalry – they're doing a paid job, just as us – but why Takatori would accept that bunch of nutcases for his bodyguards and not order them to cut us down... I believe there's more to it than we can imagine."

"He might not know who we are," Yohji volunteered cautiously, glad that Omi appeared to get over his outburst. Right now, it seemed best to stick to business in an attempt to get over the mess they had struggled with those last few weeks.

Omi gave him an odd glance. "Yeah, that's where it gets interesting. Why would they not tell him? After we got so close to their charge?" He snorted. "Yohji?"

"Hm?"

"You... I mean," he blushed and glared a challenge at Yohji, "would you have some cigarettes, huh?" Followed by an angry, "Damn you, Yotan, my papers say I'm underage so I can go to school – I'm nineteen and no stupid kid! Gimme a fag now!"

Yohji obliged. Omi snatched the lit cigarette from his fingers and smoked in deep, greedy draughts. "Schwarz want something from us. They, or their backers, and I wonder sometimes whether Kritiker know more than they let on, and why they let Aya off the hook."

Omi's mind was indeed working like one of his computers, Yohji mused uneasily, perhaps this was the reason why he knew the machines like his own head. Aya was trapped firmly between not being able to leave Weiss because his sister depended on the money and on the facilities Kritiker provided for her care and safety, and being the very cause for the danger he believed her in. Aya had nowhere to turn, a pawn for Kritiker... a bait for whoever they were after, biding their time until they had reached far enough, high enough... and decided to sacrifice him.

He was not thinking when the words slipped his lips… "Perhaps this is it… but then, maybe it isn't. Would you happen to know what her problem is? Manx? Her problem with me?"

Omi gave him a long, probing glance, smoke curling from his nostrils, his eyes dark, giving away nothing. "Manx… she knew… she used to work with your partner. Didn't you have this source at the police? That was her. She was working on the case, outsourced it to you, and lost her job over your bungled investigation… well, she resigned because she felt responsible for that bastard getting away. Persia picked her up. I think she jumped at the chance to get even. I also think she believes in hunting dark beasts. Really."

Yohji sat motionless. It made sense. It fitted perfectly. It made him sick to the marrow to wonder what she would be thinking of him now… For a heartrending moment, he wondered whether Manx knew who Neu had been.

The pain came and went, leaving another bleeding gash that would just heal over like all the others. He was used to scars. In the scheme of things, in the patterns of light and darkness Weiss lived in, none of this mattered because they were all doing their job. They were professionals, they knew the risk, they enjoyed the rewards…

Right.

Yohji felt a chill run through his limbs, and only came round when he felt Omi's hand on his arm. "Yohji?" The chibi chewed on the cigarette, his eyes still red from crying and scrubbing away the tears, his face so pale it was almost transparent. His voice was thin. "Yohji, it wasn't supposed to be like that. None of it."

Yohji bit his lip and scraped at a dried coffee stain on the table.

Omi shifted closer, just a little. "You… when we started, you and I… I'd hoped…"

Yohji looked up to meet unhappy blue eyes. "Chibi…"

"Is that what I am to you? Some silly kid?"

"You know that's not true. And it's not fair, either."

"I'd hoped you and I… and then HE came along, and that went to hell, too. To think that it actually happened under my nose… I was stupid, wasn't I… didn't pay enough attention for once, and look what came out of it."

Yohji did not know what to say, and then Omi sagged a little into himself, his thin fingers knotting and twisting the hem of his shirt. "Yohji, I'm so tired."

And without hesitation, Yohji took the cigarette from his lips, slipped his arm around Omi's shoulders and drew him close. "Then rest awhile. I need to do some thinking."

xxx

When Ken called upstairs to ask Omi whether he would go to school today or help in the shop, Omi decided to skip school, and Yohji remembered what he had been planning for some time. Aya's birthday had to be special, and perhaps what Yohji meant to do would snap him out of the sullen silence that had replaced his desperate fight against living and feeling. see Special Gifts

He had barely turned the corner of the block with the Koneko when he sensed a shadow and turned, hand slipping into his pocket with the harigane.

"Good reactions," Schuldig said, from the relatively safe distance of half a dozen steps. "Very smart, Yohji honey." He wore jeans and a blue sweater that set off his flaming hair and pale eyes, and had his hands nonchalantly stuffed into his pockets. At his throat, Yohji could still make out the fiery line the wire had etched into white skin. He smiled, and it struck Yohji as odd, ill-suited to his idea of Schuldig.

"Balinese to you," he snapped. "Are you stalking me? You must be desperate. Go away, Schuldig, I want no dealings with you."

Schuldig clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Now, Bali, this is rude. Say hello at least, and ask how I am. We could talk about the weather a bit, and about our families..." The smile veered towards a smirk, and strangely enough, Yohji felt more at ease because he could be angry now, and disdainful.

"Shit we will," he growled, "get off my back."

Schuldig shrugged. "Look, I'll cut the crap – old habit, yannno, trying to be nice."

Yohji did a double take and nearly laughed out loud because Schuldig seemed serious.

The redhead gave him a vaguely inviting nod. "I meant to ask whether you'd fancy a ride down the freeway. You liked that beach, didn't you? My head's killin' me, and I could do with some time away from the city." He pulled his hands out of his pockets, and Yohji spotted the glint of a switchblade as he began to scratch some imaginary dirt from underneath his fingernails.

Yohji sighed. "Where's your pet?"

"Caged."

Yohi expected an explanation, but none was offered. "Why don't I just throttle you?" he mused, fondling the harigane in his pocket.

Schuldig laughed, freckles dancing on his nose. "How would I know?"

"From digging around in my head," Yohji spat.

"Goodness, you're way too normal for my taste; I'd hate getting tangled in that mess. Though I do like tangling with you otherwise."

A leer and a wink had Yohji tingling and on edge, somewhere between annoyed thrill and disgust, wondering whether Schuldig perhaps WAS in his head after all. He did not like the alternative, because he did NOT want Schuldig. Under no circumstances. Never. And thinking of how that pale body had received him that night did NOT arouse him in the slightest; it was just morning wood that strained his jeans. Neither did he wonder what might hide behind that smooth young face, what made this warped mind tick, and how those weirdos from Schwarz managed to fit together so much better than Weiss could. No, he did not give a toss, apart perhaps from a slight twinge of professional interest. No more.

But now, with Schuldig in tow, he could not go to the place he had meant to visit. Neither did he fancy spending an afternoon crammed together with Omi and Ken – who surely would blame Omi's current upset state on him and Aya – in the flowershop. He decided that he had no other plans of his own right now, so curiosity won out, and he found himself waiting for Schuldig to close in with a few long-legged strides.

Schuldig briefly touched his hand, trailing the small blade over his wrist in a cold whisper. "C'mon then, Yotan. My car's right here." Parked on the kerb beside them.

And Yohji could have sworn it had not been there a moment before.

xxx

Schuldig drove, weaving his way through the afternoon traffic, his face concentrated and calm. Yohji was smoking, unwilling to leave his eyes off the redhead, and unable to think of anything much besides how odd it was to sit in this car as though he was going for a spin with a friend. So he let his mind go with the flow.

Schuldig looked younger than usual without his habitual smirk, and Yohji wondered just how correct the Kritiker files – or the Eszet records on Schwarz – were. Farfarello had a point too, he mused, for with his wild copper hair and striking eyes, Schuldig possessed a harsh kind of attraction even though he was not exactly pretty.

Yohji wound the window down a little to allow the breeze to cut through the muggy heat inside the car. Specks of hot ash whirled about, gleaming and waning like fireflies, and he could already smell the sea through the thinning smog of the city.

A sudden bang ripped through his ears, and the force of a hard impact flung him back into his seat, then jostled him against the door, and he saw the highway blur around them, cars, tarmac, scraps of colours careering past; he heard the screeching of brakes and someone screaming. Yohji flung himself over Schuldig and grabbed the wheel by instinct, knuckles whitening, eyes wide as he tried to get a hold over the wildly skidding car.

Schuldig had let go and pressed his hands against his temples as he was yelling, head down, tossed about by the hurtling vehicle, and when Yohji managed to turn the car back into the traffic and shakily ran it to a halt by the roadside, Schuldig was still howling and clawing at his scalp as though he was trying to tear out every single hair.

"Schuldig!"

"Hurts! Hurts! Hurts! Aaaaah – my head's explodin' – aaaaay..." Schuldig sobbed, digging his fingers into his scalp with bruising force.

Yohji felt the adrenaline drain from his body and shock sink in, chilling him to the marrow and making his teeth clatter. Numbly, he groped for something to cover up and found a jacket on the floor behind his seat. Warm, he thought dazedly, keep warm, lie down, rest not sleep talk awhile don't drift off stay awake warm talk...

He dragged himself out of the car and edged his way along the bodywork to Schuldig's door. It had a large dent and scratches that ran from the creased front to the rear light. He had to yank at the door to pry it open, and hefted a still wailing Schuldig out of the seat. Too breathless even to swear, Yohji hauled him along, stumbled, fell, tumbling down an embankment, then landing on something soft.

Cool. Grainy. Sand. The taste of salt on his lips. Everything melting in puddles of light and sound. Doors gaping open, the car stood askew in a layby, and they had dropped onto the sand of the beach they had meant to reach in a more planned fashion. Schuldig rose onto his knees and folded into a tight crouch, his hands over his head, and rocked back and forth until the cries faded into thready whimpers.

Warm. Cover. Up.

Yohji crawled closer. The jacket was large enough to cover them both if they huddled up together.

So he dragged Schuldig into his arms and pulled the garment over their heads. "Schuldig?" he gasped shakily. "Stop now. Nothin's gonna happen to you, man. And tell me what this was all about?"

xxx

Next chapter: Shadows of Madness – Yohji and Schuldig


	24. Chapter 24 Shadows Of Madness

**24. Shadows of Madness – Yohji and Schuldig**

xxx

Thank you to all my revievers – you keep me writing, folks. I'm glad there are people who share this rather dark take on WeissKreuz. Special thanks to those of you who have marked this story as a favourite! You know who you are.

I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the previous ones, and perhaps drop me a line?

Cheers

LH

xxx

Schuldig's howls faded to whimpers, which ceased after some time, and he sat motionless, hunched in a foetal crouch. Yohji tried not to touch him, something that was hardly possible with both of them huddling under the same jacket. So he could not ignore the waves of tremors that rocked the lanky body, and had to put up with Schuldig leaning against him, consciously or not, Yohji could not tell.

Listening to the even breathing of the sea and the greedy shrieks of hunting gulls, he wondered just what had possessed him to go on this mad trip with Schuldig at all, and why he felt rather reluctant now to just walk away and leave the redhead sitting here to work through the shock from their near-crash. But then, of course, his own knees felt like jelly, he was cold and his heart was still flying, and what scant warmth radiated from the skinny man pressing against his side felt oddly welcome to Yohji.

He reminded himself vaguely that he had yet to figure out what Schwarz were after, yeah, that was it. From Schuldig's weird offer to help when Aya's life hung by a thread, over that night at the dump hole which Schuldig called his apartment, to him stalking Yohji, nothing seemed to make sense. For all of Schuldig's cocky sarcasm, Yohji knew despair when he saw it, and right here it sat next to him, with sagging circulation and shaking its bones apart with cold.

He shifted lightly to reach for his cigarettes, and immediately bony fingers clamped around his wrist. "Don't leave me here," Schuldig whispered threadily, "please, not now."

Yohji pried off Schuldig's hand and shoved it back. Schuldig clutched it to his stomach and curled up even tighter, his head dropping to his knees, copper hair trailing over damp grey sand. Yohji found the cigarettes, but the lighter had fallen out of his pocket. "You nearly killed us," he huffed, still groping around in the faint hope of finding a spare lighter, "You're so nuts, Mastermind. I've never seen anything like it, except for your pet, perhaps."

"Don't," Schuldig gasped, "I told you, he has a name…" He chuckled, a ghostly sound, hollow and mirthless, "two in fact... maybe three... who knows..." Another series of shakes wracked him, and his hands flew up to clutch at his temples even as he began to rock back and forth on his knees, small moans dripping from his lips.

Yohji gave up his search and watched, appalled and torn between wanting to walk away and… he refused to think further about just why staying should be an option. "Man, Schuldig, what is it with you?" he grouched.

"Too… much… fucking," came the gritty retort, along with a rasping sound that could have been an attempt at laughing.

"Asshole." Yohji gave him a critical all-over. Schuldig had lost all colour, his face had taken an ashen transparency, even his lips were bluish grey, his gaze erred about unfocused, and his breathing thinned as he was sliding deeper into shock. Yohji began to rise. "Got any painkillers?"

"Car," Schuldig winced, trying to reach out again, but Yohji swayed back, and Schuldig clutched at his skull again, rocking, pleading… "Don't go, please… will pass."

"Like hell," Yohji mumbled as he slipped from beneath the jacket and wrapped it around Schuldig's trembling shoulders. "I gather you won't run away now, will you? Hey! Talk to me." He tucked the jacket in firmly and zipped it up without slipping it over Schuldig's arms, effectively cocooning him in. "Don't you go to sleep now, hear me, dumbhead? I'll go see whether you got anything useful in your car, and then whether we can get you, uh, back." Home. He had meant to say home, and stumbled over the word. It meant so little to any of them that it hurt. It meant odd things to Schuldig. The space that other people filled with images and sensations of warmth and safety was empty for them, a vacant darkness ready to soak up whatever they chose to put there: pain, hatred, anger. They all were angry at something, someone.

It was easier to define what 'home' didn't mean.

He stomped off, kicking up little clouds of sand with every step. The breeze had picked up and caressed his chill skin, and he felt dazed and uneasy and riling against whatever had brought him here and saddled him with another crazy redhead. Shock, he thought, trying to focus, all down to shock, to hell with it.

The trunk contained a surprisingly well stocked first aid kit in a battered grey plastic box, complete with a metal-coated survival sheet, ration bars, sugar tablets and painkillers of a strength not usually found in this kind of medical supply. Along with the usual paraphernalia – bandaids, scissors, bandages, gloves – It also contained tranquilisers, caffeine pills, and four vials of a clear, oily liquid that were not labelled. Curiously, Yohji examined them, then picked up one and brought it cautiously to his nose, but it was clean, with only the smell of iodine and bandaids clinging to it. He pondered for a moment, turning the vial in his fingers, before slipping it into his pocket.

Further rummaging through the littered car yielded a half-full two-litre bottle of still mineral water under the driver's seat, and a handful of rolled, creased cigarette stubs. Yohji picked one up and sniffed, unsurprised to find it reeking of grass. Mindful of his own resources, he picked up the joints and stuffed them into his jeans pocket. Armed with the bottle and the medical kit, he stumbled back.

Schuldig had not stirred. When Yohji dropped the bottle into his lap, he lifted his head, his pupils dilated and unseeing.

"I should let you pop it now, yanno," Yohji said crankily, even as he exchanged the jacket for the sheet and slipped a couple of opiate painkillers between Schuldig's cold lips, along with a sugar tablet. Schuldig managed to drink down the lot with some large swigs of water, and then Yohji pushed him over and sat down, dragging the jacket on. "Don't sleep now," he said, nudging the redhead. Something seemed off about the severity of the shock Schuldig was suffering. Well, he had been screaming his head off before…

Another nudge, a light kick against Schuldig's ankle. "Talk to me, will you?" One of the joints would do now, wrong for all the medical reasons, and damn right for whatever other reason there might be. Calming down, for example. Acid would be better, Yohji mused, to take off and flit about in some silly rainbow coloured nowhere world would suit him just fine under the circumstances, or perhaps having some coke for a quick fix, or a few happy pills for some light-hearted stupor. While he was making a fool of himself sitting here, worrying about Mastermind of all people. Not that he did worry, of course – he worried about Aya, Ken, Omi. No, not about Omi so much any more; perhaps that had become obsolete with the way the chibi had grown up, and Aya would only allow him close to shred him, and Ken… well, Ken would do what Omi did and that was currently treading the ground of cool, professional neutrality.

So he worried about Schuldig? Ridiculous. Though the man had felt… how had he felt that night? Yohji drew up his shoulders. Schuldig had been hot and needy, fiery and oddly desperate, with the twang of unpredictable danger about him. A challenge.

Yohji found a lighter in his jeans pocket. With a shiver, he lit up and popped a sugar tablet into his mouth. The smoke of the joint flowed sweetly down his throat, and he felt himself slide a bit deeper into cold and a kind of careless relaxation. "C'mon, Schuldig," he drawled, "or are you gonna conk out now?"

"No," came the faint reply, "want home."

"That dump o' yours?"

"Home," Schuldig repeated stubbornly, even as he began to roll onto his side and tense up, trying to find purchase for his hands and knees so he could get to his feet. Yohji swatted him down with a flat hand to the small of his back, and he collapsed onto his stomach, the rustling blanket tangled around his legs and rump.

"Sit. I'll take you wherever when I'm done with my smoke. Now what was this all about, huh?"

Long, thin fingers clawed into the soft sand as though Schuldig was trying to pull himself up again, but he was too weak to do much at all, so he stayed put, hair splayed messily about his shoulders and mingling with sand. "You.. cried… recently, Bali?"

His voice was thready and muffled, but he still managed to surprise Yohji, who paused, smoke curling lazily from his mouth and nostrils. "Forgot how it works," he said after a brief silence, his tone veering between startled and weary.

"Wonder how it feels…"

"Bullshit," Yohji snapped, uncomfortable with this turn.

"Forgot. We forget a lot." Schuldig shuddered again, and Yohji bent to drag him closer and re-wrap the blanket around him.

Schuldig leaned his face against Yohji's thigh and closed his eyes.

Yohji tensed… and stayed still.

Schuldig tried a smirk, but his lips barely twitched, and he gave up. "Think you're bonkers sittin' here with me a wreck, and perhaps it's just an act, and whether to believe it – better not – and bollocks let the creep pop it, it's nothing to you…" He reeled off precisely what Yohji was thinking, even as his hand came up to anxiously grab Yohji's fingers.

"And why have you not zapped us off yet, and why the hell you gotta be stalking me," Yohji added, a tad freaked but not scared anymore. How strange.

"'Cos sometimes I need to talk. With someone to listen. Brad's not always up to it, and Nagi… I can't offload this shit on the kid."

"And your… Farfarello?" Yohji prodded, in spite of himself.

A long silence followed, the cool murmur of the waves weaving into the breeze. Yohji almost thought Schuldig had passed out on the painkillers and exhaustion, but when he leaned down to see his face, Schuldig dragged his eyes open and met his gaze. "He was… nice when I met him."

Yohji nearly choked on a mouthful of smoke; he spat out the rest of the joint and spluttered until he managed to catch his breath. "Oh, c'mon," he gasped, still heaving.

Schuldig began to creep away again, but Yohji grabbed a fistful of fiery hair and tugged hard. "He's a fuckin' butcher, and you're a bunch o' loons."

"Yeah, but we know it," Schuldig countered, using both hands to try and pry Yohji's fingers from his hair. "There's only one regular guy in this stupid game, and you're havin' a hard time of it, aren't you, Bali?"

Yohji grew still, his fingers fisting in Schuldig's hair. Omi had given him the same assessment, though in different words. Normal. They considered him just that, while he thought his brain was running AWOL and tried to drown himself in mindless sex and other things best left alone. Things like Aya. Or Schuldig, who now, instead of tearing away, wrapped his long, thin body around Yohji's legs.

Yohji shifted uncomfortably. "Let off, Mastermind," he said hoarsely. "I'll take you back now, if your car hasn't gone to scrap yard heaven yet."

Schuldig tried to get to his feet; Yohji helped him, but once up, Schuldig could not walk – his knees buckled, and he simply crumpled into a heap, an expression of astonishment on his freckled face. Pale, round-eyed, somewhere between anger and worry, he looked almost painfully young…

So Yohji scooped him up, hooked one arm around his waist, and grabbed his hand to loop Schuldig's arm around his neck so he could drag him along without faltering.

Yohji had switched to autopilot: he had trouble recalling how he managed to get his charge into the passenger seat; how he could turn the ignition and manoeuvre the rattling car back onto the highway, let alone negotiate the city traffic. He abandoned the vehicle in front of the apartment block with Schuldig's flat and hauled the firehead up and into the apartment.

Boneless, Schuldig sank onto his bed. Yohji felt the urgent need for caffeine, so he filled the kettle and switched it on, lit another of the stained, half-smoked joints and went to stare out of the window while waiting for the water to boil. "How's your head now?" he asked against the grubby glass.

"Better," came the mushy reply.

The kettle clicked off. Yohji found two mugs and a glass jar with some instant coffee and busied himself to prepare drinks. He waited until Schuldig had propped himself on one elbow and was ready to take one of the coffees. Cradling the joint and his own mug in his hands, Yohji stared down at the redhead.

"Explain," he demanded dryly.

Schuldig blew over his drink and watched the rising tendrils of steam, an oddly childlike curiosity in his blue eyes. "What?" he mumbled, breathing at the steam. It dispersed, and he repeated the whole manoeuvre, apparently enraptured by the game.

"What happened. This thing about your headaches. I've never seen anything like it. Why you call this maniac nice. And," Yohji leaned down and pulled back the collar of Schuldig's sweater, revealing blackening fingerprints on his neck, close to his throat, "why you let that asshole treat you like this."

Another breath, curls of steam… Yohji waved them away, and Schuldig blinked crossly over the edge of his mug, past Yohji. "What's it to you?"

Yohji sat down on the edge of the bed and waited until Schuldig finally met his gaze. "I do not know that yet," he said quietly.

Schuldig's eyes were fuzzy but probing, with an odd mix of lingering pain, damped enough by the painkillers to allow him to think. Yohji read mistrust and anger and something else that shocked him. For it crashed into him at full force – hot, unfettered hunger, a longing so harsh it cut into his mind like heated steel.

"Brad's not always like this," Schuldig snapped, "he's got his own stuff to cope with. We all do, and he can't always listen to the rubbish I'm spewing. But I gotta talk, or I'll jump off a roof one day."

For the better of mankind, Yohji thought sarcastically, but he merely shook his head. "And what gave you the stupid idea that I'd be listening?"

Schuldig huffed. "Who else? You're in the same job. You understand. The others… the rest of you are as nuts as all of Schwarz. That limits my choice, don't you think?" He broke off with a sharp hiss and screwed up his face before it went slack, his head lolling forward and the mug tilting precariously between his unfurling fingers. Yohji caught it before the coffee could spill, and as suddenly as he had faded, Schuldig perked up again, blinking back to reality. "Whatcha… ah. Hell, I'm filthy." He chuckled, ruffling through the bright lengths of his hair that released a shower of sand.

"What kind of nuts?" Yohji enquired, deciding that he would press Schuldig now that he seemed so strangely receptive to his questions. As though he had wanted to get rid of this for a while, and perhaps he had been asked to plant some misinformation for whatever reason. This would be for Omi to decide later.

"Huh? Oh, well, we all have a screw or two missing in the head compartment." Schuldig managed a grin and washed some sand from his mouth with a long gulp of cooling coffee. "Craw's keeping us together, dunno how he can take it."

"You… like him," it slipped Yohji's lips before he knew it, and Schuldig's eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, that I do, and I like Far, and little Nagi. I like them all 'cos they're all I have. Clock that? None of us is complete alone. They're mine, and I'm theirs. And I'll do whatever it takes to keep it this way." He finished his coffee and set the mug down on the floor. "Can you say this of your lot?"

Yes. Well, he had believed he could, or perhaps he had never really wanted to look into it too deeply, and now the answer eluded him. Yohji stared at Schuldig. It was none of his concern, anyway, and the less Schwarz knew of Weiss, the better. He gestured with his mug. "Where do I come in?"

A small pause, before Schuldig shrugged and plopped back into his pillows, angling one arm over his eyes, and set his mug down on his chest. "For sex. Sleep with me, Yohji."

"Hell I will," Yohji blurted out, feeling an uncomfortable heat rise and run through his body.

"Hell you will. Better be good with me. We have no personal grievances with Weiss. Don't wanna change that, do you?"

"Felt pretty personal the last few times we ran into one another," Yohji jabbed. "And right now, I could strangle your pretty neck." He slapped himself mentally. How could he say this? Pretty? Of all godforsaken things in his chaotic life, this one should never have slipped his lips.

"Yeah," a tiny grin tugged at Schuldig's mouth, "but you won't 'cos you wanna know what makes us tick." The smile vanished and he lay still for a moment, before pressing himself deeper into the pillows. He groped around a little to blindly set the mug onto the floor, then dragged the comforter over himself and turned to the wall. "Rosenkreuz makes us tick. We've been outta the facility for some years now, but it's sitting inside us… You know how it feels to be eaten alive? When you see your self shatter into countless splinters and they all fall away 'fore you can catch them? Like trying to catch rain with your bare hands, it just flows away between your fingers." He winced and pulled the comforter higher.

Yohji watched, something cold settling into his chest as he listened to what Schuldig was saying, his tone bleak, his breathing laboured as he struggled to continue. "We hardly know who we were when we arrived… THERE. Still are none the wiser." He chuckled, a hollow sound. "They put us together 'cos we were the misfits. Uncomfortable, troublesome. It wasn't so much physical… though Nagi… he's a pretty kid, isn't he…" Schuldig broke off, his shoulders tensing, and for a while he said nothing.

"And Farfarello?" Yohji asked, suddenly feeling raw and nauseous.

Schuldig turned onto his stomach and fisted his hands into the pillow. "I was beating the crap outta someone and got my share in return, out on the yard, the day he arrived. I only knew 'cos I sensed him. Among all the others, I could feel him the moment he walked through that damn gate. He was… gentle."

Yohji felt a surge of incredulous laugher pool in his throat, but swallowed it down. This was ludicrous and fascinating, as surreal and weird as Schuldig himself.

"Go on, laugh already," Schuldig's muffled voice nabbed at him. "He was only a kid then, and pretty with his honey eyes and brown hair, and so damn naïve – he had no fear from them, believed they'd picked him up 'cos they were angels sent by God. He was actually pious, that kid. A true believer, that sorta thing. Like someone had made an effort to bring him up as a good kid, yanno, loving care and all that shit, before he ended up with us." Schuldig groaned softly. "They threw him in with me, as a taunt. He prayed. I only knew what he was on about with his prattling when he explained it to me, and then I realised. Geez, I wanted to cut him up, and it didn't occur to him that someone who hardly knew him wanted to kill him for praying. He saw my damn knife and smiled. That's when I saw it."

Yohji waited. In the thick stillness of the room, saturated with the stench of exhaust fumes, old coffee, and cheap detergent, filled with the muted noise of the traffic outside and the heat of fever, time seemed to slow to a trickle, barely there, while he tried to picture Farfarello as a brownhaired, golden-eyed angel. To swallow the sudden urge to retch or laugh, he asked at last.

And Schuldig turned onto his back and glared at him. "I saw my light."

"Bonkers," Yohji murmured, his hands clasped firmly around his mug that had gone cold.

"Yeah," Schuldig agreed roughly. "'Cos I wanted him to stay that way, even though I'd fallen damn hard. But the brat was too happy to have what he called a friend. Didn't take long for them to come for him." His gaze erred past Yohji into the distance. "To punish me, I think. To cow me. To show us, in their unending wisdom, that we belonged to them, and to reel him into the folds of their interminable mercy. I counted: they had him for three days, four hours and thirty seven minutes. And when they shoved him back into our room, he was as you've met him."

"I don't understand," Yohji managed.

Schuldig closed his eyes. "Why would you. It was my fault. I'm guilty of what they did to him. We sleep together 'cos no woman could… love him, and I shoulda done it before they had a chance to tear him apart. He came back with the idea of having done the things he would do for real when they finally let us loose. They spoiled his mind before he spoiled his image. He's cutting people open to see where they keep their souls. So he can send a message to God with one o' them 'cos no one hears his prayers, he says. Wanted to put out both of his eyes in order to see Him the better, what with all the worldly distractions outta the way."

Yohji clung to his mug as if it were a life saving device. "What kept him?"

"I did. Told him in my stupidity that he wouldn't see me anymore either." Schuldig groaned. "He stopped. It was the worst I coulda done."

"Because-"

"Yeah." A rustling of sheets, then Schuldig rolled onto his side and looked up at Yohji who regarded him quietly. "When Brad picked me for his team, I refused to play along unless he took Far on as well. I couldn't leave him behind. It worked, and perhaps I even understand why. We match, the four of us. And one day, we'll-" He broke off, drew a deep breath, and muttered, "Sleep with me?"

Yohji caught the spark of heat in those pale eyes and nearly dropped his mug. Carefully, he set it down next to the other one on the floor.

"Or do I put you off?" Schuldig prodded crankily. He watched Yohji for a moment, before hauling himself up and padding to the tiny bathroom. "I need to shower," he said as he slipped away and shut the door behind him.

Leaving Yohji rather spaced out. No, Schuldig did not put him off. It was worse: he had instilled a morbid fascination in Yohji, a need he did not realise he had until it was thrust into his face.

The thrill of dancing with madness.

xxx

A rap on the door of the apartment startled him from his musings, and he froze. From the bathroom came the rush of water; Schuldig appeared oblivious to the knocking that was repeated, harder this time. "Open up," a hard, flat voice demanded, and Yohji recognised Crawford. Cool, businesslike, matter-of-fact as always, even as he said, "Open, or I'll kick the door in."

Yohji wondered whether he should slip away using the window and the fire escape, when Crawford said, "I know you're in there, Balinese, and that he's not well. So open the hell up now; I got no issues with you."

Worth a try, Yohji thought wryly as he reached into his pocket for a wire. He carefully unlocked the door and quickly stepped aside, back against the wall beside the door, the harigane looped loosely in his hands.

Crawford had a gun, which pointed squarely at Yohji's chest. His eyes were difficult to see behind his glasses that reflected the brightness of the window, but his stance was calm and his hand steady. "Put that thing away," he said with a small gesture at the wire.

"Then drop your gun," Yohji snapped.

To his utter surprise, the gun wavered a little, and then Crawford shoved it back into the shoulder holster he wore under his usual smart summer suit jacket. "Now may I come in?" He stepped past Yohji without waiting for an answer. "I believe you have some of my property here."

"Excuse me?"

"I have come to retrieve it."

Yohji watched him knock at the bathroom door, then shove it open. "Schuldig?" Crawford's voice was quiet and cool, but it held an odd undercurrent. Worry, perhaps. Concern, almost surely.

A displeased yelp of surprise answered him. The water was turned off, and a moment later, Schuldig lurched past Crawford into the bedroom and turned to glare at him. "I'm not going with you. Not now."

"You look like shit," Crawford remarked acidly, "and I don't want to wait. Move it."

Yohji thought of those black fingerprints on Schuldig's neck, and suddenly found himself at the receiving end of Crawford's gaze. One that could easily rival Aya's death glare, he thought as he stared back. It was a bit of an effort.

"I. Do. Not. Want to go with you now," Schuldig gritted.

"Nagi won't walk with anyone else."

Yohji heard a soft gasp and turned to see Schuldig gather some fresh clothes. He dressed in jeans and sweater without another word, his movements abrupt and angry. He tied up his sodden hair, water dripping over his face and soaking into the fabric of his sweater, before looking up from Crawford to Yohji. A wide grin spread on his face, freckles dancing on grey skin, and he lit up. "Good yarn, eh?" He blew a mouthful of smoke at Yohji and stepped close, giving him a jovial slap on the back. "Man, you didn't believe all that shit, did you? You're such a fucking soft bet, Balinese."

And Yohji felt sick to the marrow as he all but fled the place.

xxx

Next chapter: Family Ties – Yohji and Omi


	25. Chapter 25 Family Ties

**25. Family Ties – Yohji and Omi**

Omi sat at the kitchen table, papers spread around the laptop, a mug of tea going cold in front of him, and peered intently at the small screen. Yohji resigned himself to the fact that he would not be able to sneak into his room quietly, and suddenly he registered the stench of sweat and dank clothes, and the weakness that washed through his body, and the angry growls his stomach made.

So Yohji filled a bowl with cold rice from the steamer on the stove and poured some tea from the jug by the kettle, before sitting down on a chair opposite Omi.

"There's fish and greens in the fridge," the young man said, without looking up or stopping his systematic tapping of keys, "perhaps you'd like to eat properly."

Yohji got up and retrieved a bowl with teriyaki fish and a plastic box with steamed snow peas, along with a pair of chopsticks, before settling back at the table without bothering to heat the food.

"It only takes a minute in the microwave." More typing. "Maybe you'd like to sleep for a few hours," Omi started again while Yohji picked away at the cold food with more eagerness than he had expected. "We have a mission tonight, and it is quite likely that we'll encounter Schwarz in action." Clickety click, busy fingers running over the keyboard, while the muffled sounds of customers and Ken's pleasant voice floated up from the shop. Yohji stopped chewing and looked at Omi, who finished whatever he was doing and hit enter, before looking up, his blue eyes firm and questioning. "Sure you're up to it, Yohji?"

Yohji downed a mouthful of rice and fish with a gulp of tea. "Why not?"

Omi sighed and shook his head, his gaze dropping to the screen again. He sucked his lower lip between his teeth and frowned a little, and Yohji thought irrationally that he looked very young right then, and very innocent. He hissed in a sharp breath and forced a vague smile. "Who cooked?"

The frown deepened into a scowl. Omi began his typing again even as he said quietly, "C'mon, Yotan. You've seen him, have you?"

Okay. No choice, Yohji thought, suddenly tired of all those little games they had been playing with one another in the past. "Yeah, not that I had much of a say in the matter 'cos he pounced at me the moment I got out of sight from the Koneko."

"What was he after?"

Yohji related what had happened, and Omi kept typing, the scowl melting into an expression of deep concentration on his soft features. "You like him?" he asked when Yohji pushed back his bowl, lit up and slumped into sullen silence while filling the kitchen with cigarette smoke. "Man, Yotan, can't you at least stop stinking out the kitchen? So what?"

"What?" Yohji mumbled, puffing smoke from his nose.

Omi sighed deeply and leaned back, staring right into his eyes. "Yanno, I got no time for this. Last week, I had three exams and a couple of major tests, and another exam's looming after the weekend 'cos it's the end of term. I gotta cram, I met a nice girl, and I gotta sort out this mission tonight, and here you are giving me shit. Fill me in, Yotan."

Yohji got up and dropped the cigarette into the sink. It fizzed, and he watched it crumble and dissolve into a small blotch of jaundiced goo. "I'm sorry, Omichi," he murmured, bracing his arms on the edge of the sink, "How did it go, then?"

Omi smiled a little. "Scraped by in History, passed the other two with distinction."

Better not to poke around in the matter of the girl, Yohji thought with a stab of regret, the chibi would have a hard time of it as it was. He turned around and managed a smile even though he needed to lean against the sink. "What kinda exams?"

"Computing and Biology," Omi said evenly, but his face began to redden with pride. "And the tests were ok, too – Maths and an essay in Japanese and English. Next week's Chemistry." He winced. "Not really my forte." Unless it had to do with lots of high-grade explosives. His gaze drifted off for a moment, and his fingers danced idly on the keys. "The Head thinks I should apply for a scholarship at one of the better universities."

Another missed opportunity, it crossed Yohji's mind bitterly, what a waste. Omi shook his head, then glanced up at him, all cool and guarded smiles again. The chibi really had grown up so terribly fast, and so very much beyond his age. He had outgrown their care, or what had passed for care since they had gotten together.

"So?" Omi prodded.

Yohji ruffled through his hair and rubbed his eyes, before dropping his hands and softly drumming against the sink behind him. "I dunno," he replied honestly, "what to make of him. But they don't seem all that fond of their masters, and not too keen on having run-ins with us." He paused, before sitting down at the table again. He folded his hands in front of him and met Omi's intense eyes. "He told me things… of what happened to them. Did you know about those experiments? About the Academy?"

"Yes," Omi said, and Yohji was too jaded to feel surprised, "we know some things." He laid his thin hand over Yohji's. "It does not change who Schwarz are now."

Yohji savoured the feeling of Omi's touch. A reassuring gesture, something salvaged… "But if it were true that all they want is to heal, couldn't everything change?"

"Nothing changes, for they'll be prepared to do anything, no matter what," Omi argued, "even if it means to continue the experiments. Crawford is shrewd and tough. If they hope to find something that reverses what has been done to them, they'll stop at nothing to get it, and somehow I cannot believe that this is the whole story. Crawford… Oracle… he likes to play his game, he likes money, and he usually plays with high stakes. Trust him to have his hands in some lucrative sideline of business, quite likely hidden from Eszet…" He paused, regarding Yohji with a shade of concern. "Yohji, is there more to your… meetings with Schuldig?"

A wry smile crossed Yohji's face. "Don't trust me?"

Omi shook his head. "I wish it would all be a bit clearer. But you and Aya, you still hope that this will end sometime, right? That somehow, we'll all be able to walk away from this kinda life and start over." He let go of Yohji's hand and leaned back. "We won't, Yohji. Even if we crawl away from Kritiker, we cannot walk from ourselves, now can we?"

"So we better put up and shut up?" Yohji muttered, his gaze slipping, taking in the small kitchen, all those familiar and never homely touches that they had become used to only because they had been living here for so long, and with a stab of jealousy he thought that even Schuldig had his very own place he would not share with anyone.

Omi tilted his head and slanted a dark glance at Yohji. "What else can we do? At least we can be useful this way, ne?"

Yohji tried another smile. "Should be me tellin' you, right?"

"Yeah," Omi agreed without bitterness, "but things don't always work out. Aya's holed up in his room, perhaps you could let him know that he's got a shift with you in the shop this afternoon 'cos Ken's off to train his soccer kids."

No one needed to remind Aya of shifts at the shop. He was conscientious to the point of pedantry. Omi wanted someone to talk to him, perhaps to reassure himself that Aya was still with it, perhaps to keep him in line. Yohji was the logical choice. So Yohji shoved his chair back and took the bowls to the sink. "Playing patch-up, Omichi?" he asked as he turned on the tap and watched the water run over the crockery.

Omi shrugged. "Why not? If the pair of you're too dense…"

"Hopeless?"

Omi laughed a little, and Yohji felt as though a rock had lifted off his soul at the small sound. "Hey, I didn't say that, Yotan."

"You thought it in your pretty little head," Yohji mock-groused and flicked some suds of detergent foam at the young man.

"Oi, watch it," Omi waved at him with both hands, "my computer's not waterproof, you goofey! Why don't you get out instead of bothering me here, it would be much easier for me to do the dishes instead of putting up with you, Yotan."

"Just what I wanted to hear," Yohji sighed, dropping the bowl he was washing, and wiped his hands on a teatowel.

"Yeah," Omi merely growled. "Leave me your cigarettes, then."

Yohji grimaced. "But it's my last packet."

Omi glared from behind his computer and Yohji saw his small hands fist on the table. Learned that from Aya alright, he mused, fumbling for the cigarettes and lighter. He tossed them at Omi, who half-rose from his chair and nimbly caught the mini-missile.

"Yanno," Yohji said irritably, "you really shouldn't be smokin' that much at your age."

Omi blushed, and an expression somewhere between cross and hilarious washed over his face, before amusement won out and he laughed again. "Man, Yohji, you realise the tosh you sometimes come up with?" And as Yohji crossed his arms, Omi quickly stepped close and almost apologetically laid a hand on his arm. "Hey. It's ok, yanno."

Yohji gave him a long glance, and finally scraped together the courage to ask what had bothered him heavily for some time now. "So we're still friends?"

Omi smiled, his eyes warming a little though deep down, they remained cool and still. "Thought you dropped me, Yotan. Glad you haven't." And suddenly, he leaned into Yohji and hugged him.

Firmly. Clinging, his arms round Yohji's neck, with more than a hint of despair.

Yohji pressed him close, and for a while, they stayed like this. "Now," he said hoarsely when he dared to speak again, "even though you're all grown up one of a sudden, aren't there a few things you'd wanna ask? Now that you've got a hold over the expert in matters of the heart, hm?"

Omi squirmed. "Umh, another time perhaps," he mumbled, reluctantly untangling himself. His cheeks burned a rather lurid shade of crimson; he smiled nervously. "Just wondered what to do with Aya, yanno. It's his birthday soon, and he's usually in a shitty mood…"

Yohji smiled secretively. "So isn't it just great that I've got something in the making for him." Quite literally, he mused as the chibi settled back to his homework, and he had the sudden urgent need to shower as quickly as possible and to get into bed.

With Aya.

He might even survive until the mission.

xxx

Aya lay on his side, face to the wall, his head pillowed on one angled arm, the other arm draped over his side, a relaxed pose. Yohji removed his shoes and padded across to kneel by the futon. "Ayan?" he murmured, unsure what to do with his hands. His heart lurched when Aya drew a long, deep breath and turned to look up at him. Yohji decided to rest his hands on his thighs to curb the temptation to grope Aya without preamble.

"Hai. You come to remind me of our shift?"

"And to sleep with you?" Yohji ventured boldly, tired of pretending and pussyfooting.

And was dumbfounded when Aya wordlessly folded back the sheets and held his eyes with a long, lingering gaze. Still, Yohji possessed enough wits to slip in and mould against Aya's lean form. "Good," he muttered, pressing his chin into the mop of red hair. He snuck a hand over Aya's smooth chest, letting it settle where he could feel the heart beat. Calmly, steadily. Soothing.

"Yotan," Aya said quietly, laying his hand over Yohji's. "Why don't you quit it and find yourself a nice girl? You're spoilt for choice, and I know you like them."

Yohji did not answer for a while, and when he did, his voice was small. "Wanna know the truth, Ayan?" He paused, and then, taking Aya's expectant silence for a yes, he shifted to cross his arms under his head and stare vacantly at the ceiling. "It's 'cos I can't do anything with them."

It took Aya, sharp, smart, obtuse Aya a few seconds to grasp this. "You mean-"

"Yeah." Now Yohji began to fumble for his cigarettes, found them, and hesitated. He sighed in resignation, but Aya took the packet, lit a cigarette and handed it back to him.

Yohji took it and smoked in silence. When the cigarette was burned nearly up to the filter, he took it, waved it nervously so that a fat string of ash dropped onto his chest and crumbled onto the clean linens, yet Aya did not bat an eyelid. "Yeah, right, Kudoh the Flirt can't get it up for the ladies." Yohji squeezed the stump out on the packet, stuffed it back into the box and turned to Aya again. "It's always the same. Have fun, get hot, get naked, and, well, I drop. If I get hard in the first place, that is."

Purple eyes met green ones in the dusky light. "Yohji, you don't have to-"

Yohji shrugged. "If it embarrasses you…"

Aya's hand alighted on his neck. A light, almost tender touch, cupping his flesh. "Do they remind you-"

"Of her," Yohji finished softly, "always of her. I killed her twice, and somehow they all end up having her face, and I see the blood and her eyes… just can't do it. Now," he smiled ruefully, "here I am, lucky bastard and all that, with another chance. Three times lucky, innit? Never thought it would come from this quarter, but I'll be damned if I let it slip this time."

It sounded a shade more desperate than he had hoped it would, and he bit his lip to shut off any further babble. Aya thought on that for a while, his expression intensely focused; Yohji could almost see his brain churn. Aya would not pity him; Aya's emotions usually did not show in expressions but in actions. Such as slicing up folk to whom he took a dislike, or the generous dispensing of icy glares.

Or like now, when he laced his fingers into Yohji's faded sand-blond locks and then dragged the sheets higher, to wrap them round Yohji and cocoon him in. "Sleep awhile," Aya said in his deep, level voice, "I'll wake you for the shift."

And Yohji scooted a bit further into the sheets and closed his eyes, soaking up Aya's warmth and closeness while he let himself drift into a dreamless slumber, the first sound sleep he had in days.

Before a shift at the shop.

Before another mission would claim them.

Before he had to face Schuldig again.

xxx

Next chapter: 26. Black and White – Schuldig and Crawford


	26. Chapter 26 Black And White

**Thanks for being patient and sending me such lovely feedback, andaApologies for the delay. I posted two new chapters though, and hope you keep enjoying.**

xxx

**26. Black and White – Schuldig and Crawford**

Schuldig slumped into a crouch on the passenger seat. Crawford steered the car through the traffic with ease, his eyes unblinking behind the reflecting glasses, his face unreadable. He began to talk after setting off at a green traffic light. "I had to put Farfarello into his cell. He was mad at us for not taking care of you. He was mad at your friend, too." He changed gears smoothly. "I think this might have gone far enough."

"You were okay with it," Schuldig groaned, clawing through the tangle of copper tresses. "I told him what you wanted."

Crawford made no reply, and Schuldig gleamed up at him. "Brad?"

"How did he take it?"

Schuldig chuckled mirthlessly. "With a shake and a wobble, I'd say."

"Why is your car crunched up?"

"'Cos someone-"

"Do not lie to me." Crawford's tone was frosty. Forbidding. He swerved onto a feeder road and shot onto the highway, inserting the car neatly into the flowing traffic by dashing into a narrow gap between a lorry and another car.

Too slow to brace himself, Schuldig swayed and was jostled against the door with a harsh bump.

Crawford shot him a glare. "I need you fit. I cannot spend enough time with Nagi to take care of his problems, not to mention Farfarello. Weiss are NOT our charge. At least not yet."

"Who said they were," Schuldig grouched, rubbing his temples. He stayed slumped into the corner, the distance between him and Crawford a bit wider this way.

"I dislike having to scrape you up like this. I dislike being bothered by it," Crawford declared, setting off to overtake a string of vehicles at a speed just below the limit. "And I absolutely cannot stand you in this state."

"Yaddah, yaddah," Schuldig snapped, pressing his hands to his head and rubbing slowly, firmly, massaging his scalp through the mass of hair. "Wanna be rid o' me then?"

"I refuse to buy this," was the terse, quiet answer.

And in spite of himself, Schuldig's tight crouch loosened up a little, his hands dropped between his knees, and his head lolled forward almost relaxedly. He grabbed the dashboard and peered through the windscreen when the car suddenly slowed down, took a sharp turn and sped down an exit road. The beach?

Before he could ask, Crawford pulled up at a small, shabby diner, slammed the car door open and stalked out, looking cool and determined, hands stuffed into the pockets of his skin-tight black jeans that smartly complemented a black turtle neck and expensive cream blazer. It was as casual as he would ever get. A light breeze from the sea tousled his dark hair, and he lifted his hand to smooth it out before ducking a little to step into the diner without knocking his head on the lintel.

Schuldig felt his breath hitch. He knew exactly what this meant: Crawford was not above using his looks then, was he… and to hell with him, but he did have something there. Something different from Yohji, who was all warmth and compassion, whether he knew it or not, with his fancy clothes and soft hair, his smile that could be surprisingly gentle, and with everything that he felt quite openly written in his face.

Crawford oozed wintry calm, like a lake covered with new ice. He did have his tempers, but one had to know him to spot the signs before it was too late. Schuldig had learned swiftly, after having been at the receiving end of a few blasts of cold, composed rage. Crawford managed to use even his anger as an effective weapon, pouring every ounce of energy into his fists or whatever he had to hand to hit, or maim, or kill.

His beatings tended to be systematic, like pounding a carpet, and as predictable. Certain things ticked him off; he would proceed without fail to teach a lesson; if the pupil thus gifted did survive, he was sure to remember. Instinctively, Schuldig touched his neck, the place with the blackened fingerprints, when the soft crunching of feet on sand startled him, and a paper bag was shoved under his nose through the side window.

"Eat," Crawford commanded, his eyes behind the glittering glasses firmly on Schuldig. He held a polystyrene cup with something akin to instant coffee out to him. "Here, drink this." When Schuldig took the coffee, he saw a couple of pills in the palm of Crawford's hand. "Painkillers," Crawford said, watching him swallow the pills and wash them down with a few sips of the hot drink. It had a remote aroma of coffee and was liberally laced with sugar for energy, and curdling fake cream to mask the bitter taste of the medication.

Satisfied, Crawford walked around the car and folded himself back into the driver's seat, which he scooted back to allow his long legs some more space. He had bought the same for the two of them – fries, sushi, something meant to be a burger. "Was all they had," he said almost contritely, wrinkling his nose as he bit into the burger. Schuldig grinned a little and began to pick at the fries. Crawford was pragmatic, sure: they could not afford anything else in their line of work. Yet given the opportunity, he would be prissy about food and clothes. Fast food and rags were not his style.

Crawford finished first. Schuldig sat hunched over his sushi, picking apart the rolls to pry out any raw fish, when suddenly hard, heavy hands clawed into his shoulders and began to knead. Schuldig slackened, and Crawford drew him close so he could lean back against him while Crawford kept massaging his neck, shoulders, arms, fingers, and up again. They sat in silence for some time, amid food wrappers and half-eaten junk, until Crawford said quietly, "Wind the seat back."

On the backseat, he had an army plaid that he dragged over both of them. Schuldig slung his arms round Crawford and tried to pull him close, but Crawford braced himself against the seat and looked down at him, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You take me," he said, as though instructing for a mission, though his voice had not quite its usual steely ring. He leaned down for a kiss that quickly turned into something hungry, almost desperate.

Schuldig drank him in. "It's quiet now," he murmured when Crawford manoeuvred them both around with smooth, practiced movements until the redhead was on top and drawn against Crawford's solid, warm body beneath him. "My head. No noise."

One hand splayed at the small of Schuldig's back, Crawford took off the glasses and, without looking, reached over his head to carefully place them on the backseat. Then he laced his fingers through the messy swathes of copper that fell over both their faces and allowed himself a smile. "Yes, quiet," he said firmly.

"Brad-"

"Do not babble."

Not much time, something echoed in the back of Schuldig's mind, hurry. He gladly plunged into Crawford's mouth while their hands slipped between them to undo buttons and flies, touch, feel, caress, grope, deft strokes flaring into heated passion, small gasps into harsh pants within moments. It did not matter that – discounting Crawford's glasses – they were both fully clothed, baring only as much flesh as they had to for joining. Crawford slipped one leg out of of his jeans as he thrust a sachet with lube into Schuldig's hands who tore it open with his teeth and applied the stuff hastily.

It felt mindblastingly good. Schuldig sunk himself into the freezing intensity that was Crawford, who remained in charge even now that he allowed himself to be invaded, making this as efficient and determined as everything he did. Release was approaching fast; a sheen of sweat beaded on Crawford's brow and his upper lip, his teeth slightly bared, and a faint blush fanning over his face and neck, he kept watching Schuldig, intent, seeking, probing.

It crashed over them before Schuldig knew. Crawford captured his mouth and bit down on his lower lip, swallowing the stifled cry that came with Schuldig's climax, and the younger man let himself drown in the stillness that poured into his mind when he fell and fell and fell… Only then did Crawford let himself go, silently, in one great spasm, his fingers tightening painfully in copper hair. He pushed Schuldig out almost immediately, and they lay still for some heartbeats, draped over one another, pulse slowing, breathing beginning to even out, before he squeezed Schuldig in a hard embrace. "Better?" Calm brown eyes focusing onto hooded pale ones that looked lost for a moment, unguarded in the last ripples of passion.

"Yeah," Schuldig muttered hoarsely. Always. He was always better with Crawford close.

Unless Yohji happened to be around.

He only realised that Crawford had concentrated on sensing him when he felt the cool touch of glasses against his cheek and the subtle shifting of the body that pillowed him.

"Let's move." Crawford grabbed Schuldig's upper arms and shoved him up and back. "We have to go over the briefing before setting off tonight." He brushed food and wrappers off the passenger seat and settled himself comfortably. "You drive," he ordered.

Schuldig obeyed wordlessly. He never felt in the mood for talking after sleeping with Crawford; the silence that flooded his mind was too precious to be disrupted. And he never really wanted to know how Crawford did it – whether he caused the noise in the first place, or whether he soaked it all up into his own mind, to cope with it somehow.

Crawford fished among the litter on the floor and came up with a few paper napkins to wipe down both of them, then he pulled up his bare leg and dragged his jeans back on. He tucked himself in and smoothed out his rumpled jumper and jacket. Schuldig buttoned himself up, tossed his hair forward and quickly combed his fingers through it while listening to the unspoiled sounds of the breeze, the rolling sea, the soft swish of Crawford's clothes.

He remembered feeling this calm for the first time when the boy Farfarello held his hand. Then, much later, when he ran into Crawford, who had plunged him into screaming chaos by raking ruthlessly over his bleeding mind, before allowing him relief by cupping his face and sinking himself into what was left of Schuldig's soul.

He had stared back into those chill eyes with what defiance he could still muster after having been beaten to a pulp, after realising what had been done to Farfarello, after running and getting caught because he could not keep running while knowing the boy was still there. Go, Farfarello had pleaded, there is no way I can keep up... I would only hinder you... make me happy, leave...

"Focus," the familiar unruffled voice poured into his runaway mind, and as always, it worked. Schuldig pushed the gear in and turned the ignition key.

Crawford had come to the facility to assemble the team he had been charged with: the misfits. The waste. The dangerous ones that could not be neatly erased and rebuilt. It always puzzled Schuldig how someone could have been stupid enough to hand Schwarz to a man like Crawford, with his unsatiable appetite for power, smooth manners and sly, grim cynicism. Or, perhaps, whoever decided this had meant to create a tiny crack in the polished monolithe of Eszet's power. A backhanded, longwinded way of disturbing the fortress. Something suitable to blur any trace of its originator. Who would have to know Brad Crawford intimately well and hold a position of considerable influence.

Schuldig paused to light a cigarette before pressing down the accelerator and turning the car back onto the highway. Winding the window down, he could smell the salt on the breeze that kissed his face.

So that someone had to be either very dense indeed, or exceedingly clever. Schuldig puffed a long stream of smoke out of the window and pulled the car into the traffic. He did not need to see Crawford's expression right now, he knew it from memory: smooth, unperturbed, a tad aloof, while still flecked crimson from the rush of sex. Crawford coloured easily and to his chagrin took ages to drain to his normal hue.

"You will leave that dump," he said into the hum of the engine, "and live at the mansion like the rest of us."

Schuldig tensed. It's my space. My own. Mine.

"I need you closer."

To keep tabs on me. I hate that. I won't run, now will I? Where would I go, what with my fucked-up head an' all...

"Nagi needs you." The kill-it-all. The mother of all blackmails. Nagi needed, Nagi would get.

The familiar wave of anger and helplessness washed through Schuldig – he could not leave the boy behind. It would have been too much of the same, even for him, and they both knew it even as he blurted his defiance at Crawford.

"Stuff the brat." Make me happy...

Crawford managed to look bored as he lit a cigarette too and began to smoke in long, deep pulls. Schuldig chewed on his lip. Token resistance, who was he kidding anyway... Crawford had never let them down so far, and he was always so damn right about everything. Maybe there was more to his gift than he would let on after all.

"You're an asshole, Brad," Schuldig pressed through clenched teeth and hit the accelerator.

Without another word, Crawford relaxed into his seat and closed his eyes. When Schuldig ventured a glance at him at the next set of traffic lights, the cigarette was gone and he was fast asleep, head lolling against the head rest, glasses askew, a bit of drool in the corner of his slack mouth.

He had known he would win, as always.

Because they were Schwarz.

They had no personal spaces.

xxx

Next chapter: Mission Briefing Weiss – The Weiss Team


	27. Chapter 27 Mission Briefing Weiss

**27. Mission Briefing Weiss – The Weiss Team**

"So this guy we're after," Yohji flicked through the thin file Omi had compiled for their mission briefing, "he does experiments on people?"

Omi looked a bit paler than usual, but if he was stressed, he had it well under control. "Bingo, Yotan," he said, slightly mocking although without sting, "you read the briefing this time. He picks people off the street. No names, folk not easily missed, and if someone does bother to tell the police, they'll have higher priorities than looking for some bum that vanished from his park bench. We found out that he has connections to a large pharmaceutical enterprise who partly funds his research. Their lab's state of the art, concealed as a university research centre. The enterprise in question has contracts with a number of other companies. One of those holds contracts to supply the military with pharmaceuticals. Another one is involved into fertility treatment, and a third works on genetics. A number of loopholes in their financing – for example payments accepted for test series that were never conducted – allow them to hold Black Budgets. Great for money laundering. Yohji, I didn't think I'd bore you that much, can you stop staring holes into the ceiling now? Here, this is the layout plan for the university, the lab, and – shit!"

Yohji jerked up from his chair and spluttered, Omi splashed crimson, and Ken looked at his fingernails. Only Aya bothered to stoop and pick up the handful of photographs that had slipped from between the papers and fluttered to the floor. The top one showed part of the lab and a very pretty girl in a dark blue school uniform, her short blond hair parted neatly at the side, blue eyes rather gloomy as the camera had caught her slightly up her skirt as she was awkwardly adjusting her bust.

"Ken," Omi scolded faintly, taking the picture from Aya who held it with pointed fingers.

"You do look good in that," Ken murmured apologetically, a sheen of pink colouring his cheeks even as he tried hard not to burst out laughing.

Omi tried to stare down Yohji who was struggling to get a hold over himself and failed miserably, clucking and grinning widely at the younger man. "He's right, yanno. Looks good on you, especially from that angle."

"Shut up, Kudoh," Aya growled, thumping his sharp elbow into Yohji's ribs.

"Ack!" Yohji gasped, clasping his arms over his stomach. "That hurt!"

"Wimp," Aya commented tersely.

"Shut up already," Omi said, still bright red, but his blue eyes glittered with a spark of amusement too. "Yotan, you should try that sometime. I think it would suit you."

"And your reputation," Aya seconded, raking a nasty glare over Yohji.

"Hey," Ken said flatly, to everyone's surprise, "cut it, you two. Bali couldn't carry it off, his pins are crooked. So what are we supposed to do? Blow up the place? It's full with kids."

"My pins?" Yohji snapped, with a quick, nervous glance down his legs.

"Thanks," Omi said, with a tiny smile, "and no, we will not-"

"Deliver a blow job," Yohji could not help but supply, his mind still unprofessionally fuzzy with what had happened between him and Aya the night before, but he bit his lip when he found himself at the receiving end of everyone's stares. He lifted his hands in a resigned gesture. "Alright, alright, but all work and no play..."

"We know, Kudoh," Aya sniped, "we do all the work, and you can keep playing."

Aya had been top.

"Fuck you," Yohji mumbled, digging for his cigarettes. Aya should not complain, after all it had been his choice, even though he was predictable. Yohji cast a quick glance at him and could have sworn he saw a tiny glint in those pale purple eyes. What was that, a challenge, laughter, or a tease? It startled him more than Aya's scowl.

"Yohji!" Omi said, waving a thin hand before his eyes, a hint of concern in his voice, "if you're too tired, you ought to tell us so that we can plan for contingency. It won't do to be distracted tonight."

Tell Aya that one. "Uhm, nah, I'll be okay." Yohji settled back into his chair, the cigarette hanging unlit from his mouth, and the file sitting open in his lap.

Omi regarded him with a deep blue gaze. "We know that Schwarz are after the same target. We are not quite sure why 'cos their current employer is unlikely to set them upon one of his own enterprises." He paused, a small frown darkening his face, but then he shook his head and pointed at the groundplan of the building complex. "We will go in at night, between the rounds of the nightwatchmen. There are four security personnel on site, all male, equipped with small firearms, tasers and K.O. spray. We go in here," he tapped a bony finger at a delivery hatch that led into the basement of the building.

"Why don't we go undercover for this one?" Aya questioned in his throaty, deep voice.

The soft rasp sent a shiver through Yohji.

He lit another cigarette and tried to will his fingers not to shake.

Aya baffled him yet again by plucking the cigarette from his mouth and – instead of snuffing it as usual – began to smoke it himself.

A small pause, a little silence that was just a tad too still and too long, before Omi nodded. "We considered this option and concluded that it would be extremely difficult to finish this job during the day as students 'cos the place is sanitised as much as possible. Part of the lab's locked completely behind a fake wall, and the relevant files reside on a separate local area network of only three terminals and a server that's located in this office here, within the sealed area. The campus buildings are oldfashioned, a maze, and no one would notice the difference between the outside and the inside of the building here." He paused, giving Ken a pointed glance. "Now, we tried, but it's not possible to fool the security personnel with a simple drag number." He blushed again, but his eyes gleamed. "They are undercover, well briefed and very clever, started swarming as soon as we got close to the control panel for the hidden area. We left 'cos we didn't want to spook them."

"One of the guys did make a pass at you," Ken grumbled under his breath. "Got pretty damn near to feeling you up."

"Yes, that would have been rather difficult," Omi said glibly. "Now, we'll try to make this a gore-free job, if we can help it. Here, this is Aya's position. Yohji, I need your backup to get to the computers and out again. Ken, you'll stay here, halfway between Aya and the office to cover us. You know the spiel – memorise the stuff before I go to burn it up. In addition to our usual gear, we'll need plastic explosives in small batches for the door in case I can't crack the code, incendiaries for burning up the lab when we're done... uh, and for health and safety reasons, do wear the bloody teflon vests, will you? And that means all of you, even the gentlemen who use long, sharp cutting tools or double-twisted washing lines."

He stood and nodded at them. "I'm going for a nap now. Yohji, you could do with some decent sleep, get your ass to bed or I'll freeze you from the mission. Aya and Ken will run the shop this afternoon." He gave a big yawn and stretched. "Questions? Nope? Cool. See ya later, folks." And off he was, heading for his bedroom.

Aya snagged the file from Yohji. "Gimme that."

"Hey, I had it first!"

"You're an airhead, Kudoh."

That shut Yohji up. It hurt, despite everything he was trying to tell himself. Ken did not even bother to say anything; he went into the shop to prepare for the afternoon shift.

Yohji shifted closer to Aya. Carefully. To peer over his shoulder at the layout of the building. He rested his chin on Aya's shoulder. Aya did not fight him off. Emboldened, Yohji slipped his arms around Aya's waist, just lightly resting them there. Feeling the wiry body, the ever-present tension, and longed to soothe it all away.

Aya let him. Yohji grew unsettled.

"Wear that vest," he said quietly. "If the chibi's imploring us, something's up."

"Hn. He hasn't told us half of it," Aya agreed, without resentment.

"Odd."

"Yeah."

"You gonna give me some of that file now?"

"Man, Kudoh..." But Aya shoved most of the papers into Yohji's hands and settled for only the ground plan, which he spread on the floor for some careful scrutiny.

Yohji began to read, chewing on his crumbling cigarette. He was trying to smoke less, but it made him edgy. While he skimmed over the text, his thoughts did wander. To Schwarz. To Schuldig.

And he wondered why Omi had separated him and Aya on this mission.

xxx

Next chapter: Messy Job – Weiss and Schwarz


	28. Chapter 28 Messy Job

**28. Messy Job – Weiss and Schwarz**

Apologies for the late update, and a great thankyou to my regular reviewers for sticking with the story and sending me such nice, encouraging revs.

xxx

"Can I borrow those for a sec?"

Without a word, Crawford handed his glasses to Schuldig, who held them at a distance to peer at the small print on the layout plan of the laboratory. They were sitting in Crawford's office, at his large, paperstrewn desk, Crawford leaning back in his leather chair and smoking lazily. Schuldig hunched opposite him over the plans, a photograph of the building in front of him, another of the chief scientist at the facility. "Quite an impressive history," Schuldig commented as he looked up from the plans and tapped his long fingers onto the portrait of the unremarkable middle aged man, posing with a smile. A press photgraph, undoubtedly.

"Yes," Crawford agreed, giving him a heavy lidded glance through a plume of smoke. "You should get better cigarettes, these are dismal."

Schuldig grinned and made a point of shoving some chewing gum from one cheek into the other. "I'm trying to cut down. It's easier if they taste shitty." He let his blue gaze wander over Crawford who already wore black combat gear, assault boots and contact lenses. The wireless com he would clip behind his ear lay on the polished desktop in front of him, along with the heavy, sand-filled gloves that would protect his knuckles when he dealt blows to an opponent. The holster with his gun rested snugly against his broad chest, and a belt with spare clips and a taser hugged his waist.

Crawford raised his brows, his thin lips quirking a cool smile. "Like what you see?"

Schuldig, barefoot, mussed, and still in a pair of ratty blue jeans and a shoddy black t-shirt, laughed. "Let me concentrate, will ya?" He pushed the glasses back across the desk. "Here, thanks."

"As soon as we are back, you will get your eyes sorted," Crawford ordered quietly. He checked his watch with a flourish. "You have ten minutes to get ready." He reached across to press a couple of tablets into Schuldig's hand. "Take these for your head. I expect everyone at the car in time."

xxx

Aya slipped in through the hatch as silently as a cat. Omi pressed his hand over the wireless on his ear and nodded at Ken and Yohji, signing all clear, go in. Yohji dropped in after Aya, passed him by the door of the dank boiler room they had entered, and ran ahead of Omi. They heard Ken panting softly behind them for a while as they made their way through the darkness that was scantily lit by blue emergency lights. The university had security systems only around the more sensitive areas – research laboratories, the finance and administration offices, storage areas for expensive equipment, and the computer labs. It would have been too suspicious to up security for the entire campus, and a logistic nightmare to boot. Still, Yohji thought, the people in charge of the secret laboratory were rather smug about their cover.

"In position," Ken's quiet voice came through the wireless, even as Yohji and Omi slunk along a hallway that would lead them to the chemistry seminar and the hidden laboratory. Omi put out the camera in the corner near the door with a neat dart, and they pressed against the wall while he linked a lockbreaker into the electroinic combination lock. Yohji watched the hall while Omi stared at the small screen over which endless combinations of little red digits scrolled until suddenly, they stopped and turned green. "In," he murmured, pressing his gloved hand lightly against the door.

"Charges set," Ken said softly into their ears.

"Abyssinian?" Omi queried.

"Hai. All clear over hear," Aya replied calmly.

Yohji stayed by the door, Omi slipped into the darkened room. Yohji strained to hear him, but the young man had been swallowed by the shadows and the silence of the abandoned seminar, so Yohji could only wait.

He felt uneasy. He could not have explained why; they had bumped into Schwarz on various occasions. Things tended to get messy mostly when Ken and Farfarello got their hands on one another, but this time...

He hated to think about what could happen this time, with a cool, pained voice bouncing around in his mind, laughter somewhere between sarcastic and unhappy, you didn't believe all this crap, man, you really are a soft bet, Balinese, he'll hand-feed you, don't leave me now, don't leave, and heal we will.

"Incendiaries planted," Omi said, "I had to bypass a palm scanner that wasn't on the door yesterday. I'm at the computers now. They had cameras here, too, right above the workstations."

The kid was a genius, but now he lagged two minutes behind schedule. Yohji itched to go in and keep a closer eye on him. "Bombay?" he whispered.

"Stay put," came the dry retort. "Something's messed with the computers... the firewall's been reset, the entire setup is different..."

Yohji swore under his breath. The briefings were never quite accurate; they could only rely on the information Manx and her colleagues hunted down via their various sources, and on Omi's research. Even with the best of efforts, gaps were inevitable, but this was the most serious blip they had yet encountered. Omi was meticulous in his planning, he would not have missed something like a new firewall. This meant that someone had fiddled the systems after Omi was done.

Yohji felt his chest grow tight. He pulled the loops of the harigane in his hands, as if to test the tautness and strength of the wire, and pushed down his night vision goggles. "You got three minutes forty seven seconds to fireworks," he breathed.

"Read," Omi said, a little tightly.

"We were supposed to be here first," Ken voiced what they all feared now.

"Oh shit," Omi gasped suddenly, "Oh shit, oh shit, oh..." He sounded as though he was gagging, and Yohji was ready to go in.

"Bombay?" he snapped.

"Silence," Omi gasped through the com, and Yohji could hear the faint clicking of a keyboard.

"Two minutes sixteen seconds," Yohji murmured.

"Activate," Omi ordered, still tapping away.

"Read," Ken replied evenly, and a small silence followed, Yohji watching the hallway through the blinking of the digital clock inside his goggles.

Aya broke radio silence five seconds later. "Intruder. Three, coming on to me."

"Fuck," Ken said.

"Bombay," Yohji began, before he heard Aya yell and Ken shout at him to hold out, shots cracking through the corridors.

Yohji felt chill, yet this was not the usual chill he felt when on a mission, not the cool, breathless tingle of excitement, mingled with a trace of disgust in anticipation of bloodshed.

"Buy me time," Omi said softly. "This beast must go to hell. Buy me time, Bali."

"Come outta there," Yohji pressed through his teeth. "Another night, Bom-"

"Why guten Abend, Freunde," a familiar voice sneered. "Why not go to sleep now? Perhaps we ought to help a little..."

"Bali, they're off your way, fuck, get off me you sicko," Ken yapped before a crackling noise cut him off.

Yohji heard them before he saw. Aya, working his blade against bullets. A man in black combat gear pistolwhipping him with playful precision, letting him get close, almost close enough for cutting, before planting another slug right before his feet. Aya was bleeding from both upper arms where he had been hit, and his strokes became heavier as the man closed in, driving him towards the laboratory. Yohji melted into the darkest corner near the door, the harigane ready, his heart pumping hard. He knew the way that man moved.

Aya had lost his gun. He trailed blood. They had less than two minutes before the explosives would blow up. Omi was still inside.

The man who played with Aya did not want to kill him yet. He had something else on his mind, and Yohji thought with cold bitterness that he might just know what.

The harigane whirred around the man's neck before he could yell, and Aya dropped to his knees the same instant Yohji tugged the wire taut. He tore the black balaclava off the man and a flood of copper washed over his hands.

"You little fuck," Aya panted, crawling closer, blood slicking his fingers and the hilt of the katana.

Schuldig's hands came up for the wire in a futile attempt to loosen the deadly loop that already left a bleeding cut on his throat.

Right were it had cut him before, it flashed through Yohji's mind, and suddenly blue eyes caught his gaze. As cold as ice. Without remorse, without a plea. A glance as blank as a clean window.

They, it flashed through Yohji's mind, Ken had said 'they', who was the other and where did he go-

"Let off," Omi's voice trickled into his ear. He sounded odd, and Yohji shook his head at Aya who began to rise to his knees, dragging his blade up and back with a smooth twist of his upper body, arms still in backward motion. Once the blade reached the pinnacle of this swing and turn to fly towards its prey, it would be too late to stop him.

'Bang', Yohji mouthed at him over Schuldig's head, with a pointed glance at his watch, but Aya only glared back at him. Three, two, one, Yohji counted down and grimaced in anticipation of earshredding detonations that would bury them all under layers of broken concrete and torn steel girders.

Zero.

Stillness.

Yohji swallowed hard and felt his heart sink. Ken, he thought painfully, goddamyou...

"Listen to him," another voice reached them both. Cool and calm, a lake beneath a layer of frost.

Crawford.

Had. Omi.

Had slipped through while they let themselves be distracted by Schuldig's little show, like school kids entertained by a clown.

Yohji found it difficult to breathe, his eyes burned, his throat felt scratchy. Aya froze, the blade ready to sweep down and slice open Schuldig's stomach. Yohji gaped, their eyes locking for a heartbeat, before Yohji loosened the wire somewhat. "Read, Oracle," he said hoarsely, in a voice that hardly sounded like his own.

"Let Mastermind go. Withdraw from the premises unless you want us to kill you. You have two minutes."

"But-" Yohji started, only to be cut off by Omi's flat order, "Go. Now."

"Go, go, go," a sing-song voice rang through their wireless, "oh, my pretty go, while you can, you should run, go my pretty go..."

Aya's eyes widened a little. He lowered his arms, the blade shivering in his grip, and Yohji cautiously unwound the wire from Schuldig's throat. The redhead slowly sat up and wiped one hand over the bleeding cut, then he got up.

In time to stop Farfarello who saw the wound, the blood on Aya and Yohji with the harigane still in his fists and launched himself at the latter in complete silence. Schuldig stepped in, catching Farfarello's blade in the ribs.

"We have orders," he hissed painfully, pressing against Berserker with all his might, "let's roll now, or I'll fuckin' hurt ya!"

Stunned, Yohji watched as Schuldig dragged his manic team mate off down the dark corridor, the muffled sounds of their struggle fading quickly.

"Bombay?" Aya rasped. "You read me? Siberian?"

Yohji bated his breath. Aya pressed his hand on the earpiece, his eyes wide and vacant.

Silence.

Yohji could see Aya's breathing picking up, his chest heaving, his lips draining of colour as he sucked them between his teeth and looked up at Yohji as though he could solve this mess. Yohji felt like burning up and crying, and was not able to hide it.

"Do you read me?" Aya tried again, a click of panic in his level tone.

From the laboratory, they could smell smoke.

"Fuck, the smoke alarm," Yohji snapped, grasping Aya's arm that was slippery with blood. "C'mon, we gotta get outta here."

"We cannot leave like this," Aya protested, flinching from Yohji's grip on his wounds, but Yohji merely dragged him up and began to run, back the same way they had come. They almost fell over Ken who slouched by the hatch, as though he had tried to escape but had been too weak to crawl up the slope that led outside. He was covered in blood and his head lolled to one side. Yohji touched the vein at his neck.

"Out cold," he squeezed out, then he pulled himself out on that slope while Aya hefted Ken up. Yohji lay down on his stomach and reached down to haul the lifeless body outside. Aya followed, nimble in spite of bloodloss and pain.

The fire alarms went off the moment they plopped onto the manicured lawn outside the hatch, and then a series of explosions began to rumble through the building.

"Bastards," Yohji gasped and tore off his earpiece and goggles.

Aya said nothing. Their car had gone. Flames danced behind the windows of the building, and the first windows began to shatter, glass cracking and scattering everywhere, the pressure of the heat inside and the shudder of more explosions – the chemicals stored in the lab, Yohji suspected, and their deactivated charges – hurling glass splinters about like projectiles.

He did not know whether he was crying. He could not remember anything beyond carrying Ken, with Aya's help. They found the car park of the university compound and managed to steal a car while people were stumbling sleepily out of their halls of residence to see what had caused the upheaval, and the wailing of sirens announced the approach of fire engines and emergency services. He reversed wildly out of the parking lot and reached the freeway, while Aya rang Manx via the secure line on his mobile to ask directions to the appropriate medical service and give her a first coarse report.

"The yakuza place down in the docks," he ground out when he put the call down.

"What about Omi?" Yohji demanded breathlessly, dashing down the freeway, fast but not enough to alert any speedcheckers.

Aya said nothing. He lit up, his fingers shaking. Yohji scrubbed over his eyes, his vision suddenly blurry. On the backseat, Ken moaned softly, and Aya turned to keep an eye on him. "They could have wiped us," he finally offered, without looking at Yohji.

Yohji sped down the exit towards the docks. In the distance loomed the still skeletal warehouse where he had perched, wedged between Schuldig and Farfarello, atop a girder several storeys above the quay. He began to shake, the car jerking as he veered around a corner and swept down a narrow alley between two dark, windowless buildings.

They were received by a couple of men that could have passed for stevedores in their oily overalls, had it not been for the semi-automatic guns they carried with easy familiarity. Within minutes, Yohji and Aya had been whisked inside one of the buildings, a large hall with a number of containers and truck trailers, and cranes overhead. The whiff of fresh paint and new concrete permeated the stuffy air. One of the containers held a complete medical unit, along with a doctor and a very young man who appeared to have the duties of an operating theatre nurse. Yohji trailed after the men who carried Ken into this improvised, modern mini hospital, but was firmly shut out at the door.

He sat down on the bare floor. Aya crouched next to him. One of the men brought them coffee and cigarettes. They could shower, he told them, and rest awhile once they felt ready, and if they wanted to eat or needed anything else, they should tell whoever they could grab.

Yohji felt too numb for anything.

"Who sold us?" Aya broke into his brooding.

And Yohji looked up to meet his cold, purple stare. "I wonder."

xxx

Next chapter: You Never Know – Crawford and Schuldig


	29. Chapter 29 You Never Know

**29.You Never Know – Crawford and Schuldig**

"We heard that Weiss had plans and went to intercept them, but unfortunately we were too late," Crawford said into the phone. Still in his combat gear, he perched on a corner of his desk, his free hand dancing impatiently on the casing of the computer monitor. "Yes, Mr Takatori, the lab went up in flames. I agree, this is all very unfortunate. Hm? Oh. And would you have an idea who killed him? A professional hit, I see. I cannot answer that. May I remind you that my team were otherwise engaged. No, I have not seen anything. Surely, someone must have copies of those files? Are you saying that all the records about the tests were in the hands of one man alone? Naive is not the word I would use." He listened for a while, before rubbing his eyes. "Understood. I will meet you for a full report in the morning. I suggest at eight hundred – fine, nine hundred hours. Good night."

Carelessly, he dropped the receiver back onto the phone and glanced at the small black wallet with disks and memory sticks that lay in his lap. He caressed it briefly, a vague smile playing on his lips. Weiss had done the legwork, and Schwarz had scooped the rewards. For all their efforts, the kitties had not gotten the milk, let alone the cream.

"He bought it." Schuldig knew better than to make it a question.

Crawford looked up and met his pale gaze with a smouldering glance. Schuldig allowed himself a smile. He had not bothered to change either; after tucking Farfarello securely into his jacket and cell, he had waited for Nagi to return and hand them the wallet with copies of the data he had unearthed in the apartment of the man they had routed. They boy had tersely reported his success, showered off the stench of his deed and gone to bed after forcing down a protein shake. He rarely ate after completing a job.

They had time to themselves now, and for all his outward cool, Crawford had his moments. Schuldig loved every second of them. "So where's the little prick?" he prodded, shifting his weight to lean hipshot against the doorframe, a deliberate sensual, teasing pose. Combined with his blood-stained clothes, messy hair and bleeding neck, it would be a sure turn-on for Crawford who gave him the eye. Schuldig let his smile broaden. He was smoking, one hand behind his head, the other one playing idly with the cigarette, flicking ash onto the carpet.

"Don't do that," Crawford said flatly, dark eyes narrowing a little. "Use an ashtray if you must smoke in here. For the time being, he will stay in my room."

Schuldig laughed. "Ooooh..."

"Shut up." He wrinkled his nose in disgust and blinked, eyes slightly irritated from the contacts. "I don't do kids."

Another laugh, a puff of smoke and a toss of copper hair caked with blood. "Almost thought you'd say you're no pervert. So you gonna let him stew? Perhaps we could-"

"Watch your tongue. That sort of thing doesn't get me off, and it doesn't help. He will find more than he went out for tonight, and he will tell us a few things. Later."

"Oh? I'd hoped we could play a bit with him."

"Not now. You stink."

Schuldig raked through his hair and wiped his hand on his cloth-covered chest with a langourous, deliberate air. "So do you. Shower?"

Crawford stepped from behind the desk, and with a few long strides, he reached Schuldig and pressed him against the doorframe. "No," he said, winding his fingers into a swath of bright hair. Then, suddenly, he dipped his head and sunk his teeth into the crook of Schuldig's neck, holding him hard by the hair while deepening the bite until it was a black, bloodshot welt. Schuldig let out his breath in a long hiss but he moulded against Crawford, wrapping arms and legs around him, the cigarette between his fingers dripping ash onto the floor.

Crawford let go and came up to kiss him hard on the mouth. The kiss tasted of blood, from the cut Yohji's wire had drawn over another slash that had barely healed over. "If you do that again," he said against Schuldig's cheek, "I will hurt you like you've never been hurt before."

"Do... what?" Schuldig gasped, trying not to yelp at the pain when Crawford slammed him into the wall, and at the flare of lust that raced through him when long, pliant fingers found the tab of his trousers and had him undressed down there in a matter of moments. The trousers would not go over the boots, so Crawford brought Schuldig down onto the carpet, right by the door that they were blocking with their bodies.

"Get yourself cut," Crawford growled and looped Schuldig's legs over his shoulders. Schuldig groaned at the pain in his flank, where Farfarello's knife had caught him instead of killing Yohji. Crawford bent him a bit more, staring down at Schuldig who met his gaze with a blue glare, cold and watery with pain. "Lube?" Crawford asked, the slightest bit out of breath.

Schuldig shook his head and bit his lip. Crawford gave him a dark smile. "Scared?"

"Not... of that," Schuldig sneered and let out a ragged moan when deft fingers touched him between his legs, then left. Crawford shifted on top of him, and then the touch returned, cool and slick this time, along with a kiss that sucked the air out of him.

"Brad," he yapped when Crawford broke the kiss and hooked one arm around Schuldig's thigh, the other one braced by his shoulder, "what if... you... we..."

Another of those mindblowing kisses, pouring fire and ice into him; the arm by his side trembled a little with the effort of holding up Crawford's body, and then they were joined in one slow, deep thrust. Schuldig's eyes went wide, then fell shut. Crawford never ceased to amaze him, with this odd, incongruous tenderness down there that did not seem to match biting kisses and the rage beneath the ice in those brown eyes, with his insistence on distance and the forcefulness of those most intimate assaults.

Every time when things seemed to become unbearable, got out of hand, out of control, when too many questions whirled in his head and all those voices inside his mind refused to quieten down. Crawford timed himself nicely.

And soon, everything was forgotten beyond the motion of their bodies and Crawford's weight on his, muscular arms winding round his shoulders, firm hands fisting in his hair.

xxx

Omi leaned back against the bedpost and tried to move his shackled hands. Up, bang against the top rail, down, clank against the frame, a few inches to the left, to the right, forwards and back, rattling against metal bars. That was it; along with the darkness in the room and the impression that someone else was breathing closeby. He shuddered, in spite of himself. Fucked up, he thought wearily, big time. Too late he had realised Crawford closing in.

The older man had skilfully dodged the darts and when Omi stared down the barrel of his gun, he had taken a deep, regretful breath and braced himself to die.

The shock of being taken alive was greater, and he shivered at an echo of the panic that had washed over him when Crawford threw him over the desk and cuffed his hands behind his back. The man was more than a head taller, much broader, much stronger, no use even to try and fight him, and when Omi tried anyway, a sand-bolstered leather fist whacked against his chest, right where his heart beat. It knocked the breath out of him for seconds until he thought his heart had given out, and he felt blue when he finally managed to yell for air.

Crawford had spoken into the intercom, his voice cool and composed, as though he had expected nothing else but success, and Omi grasped the chance of getting the team out alive. A chance, at least, for Ken and Yohji, and even for Aya.

He closed his eyes and tried to relax, to empty his mind. The things he had seen filled his mind instead, and with a small cry, he let his eyes fly open again. Things... ugly beyond belief, not human yet not animal either, things with knowing eyes, savage features and a feral sadness deep in those dark pupils... he had run through the files, dowloaded everything he could find, DNA analysis, alterations, genetical mappings, codes, endless series of experiments, things he had half-expected and never wanted to find. It had cost him all of his concentration to remain calm, try not to let touch him what he saw.

He saw glass vials, filled with fleshy things preserved in liquid, row upon row on long, stainless steel shelves, neatly labelled with numbers and mock-names, and some of them looked almost human. Almost. Cut, sliced, soaked in liquid, put in a jar, sealed and catalogued. Bits and pieces – claws, limbs, eyes, staring blindly from their vessels of repose. Lives taken before they could begin, still embedded in the hollows of muscle and fibre meant to be their shelter and had been powerless to protect them.

He had focused on the computer screen so hard, he had heard the soft rustle behind him only when it was too late. Crawford had moved like a fox, swift, deft, with not a fraction of hesitation, and caught him in the blink of an eye. The gun hooked under his jaw, a muscular arm clamped over his chest, and a long leg between his own, Omi had been immobilised. Done the only thing left to do – slumped, forced himself to relax into the punishing grip of his attacker, and gone with the flow. If the leader was down, it made no sense to sacrifice the team as well.

He had simply not expected anyone to get past Yohji without a warning.  
He felt his chest tighten – perhaps it was all a ruse, and Weiss were no more.  
Maybe that was why Crawford had recalled Schwarz.

Instinctively, he tried to lift his hand to wipe his eyes that filled up in spite of himself, but his arm yanked against the bonds, and he let his head drop back against the metal post. A silent tear made its way down his cheek, to his chin, and dripped onto his sweaty t-shirt. Why had everything gone so wrong that night? Why had Schwarz taken him hostage? Why had it seemed as though they had known Weiss would be there?

Who could have told them?

Omi shivered and rolled his shoulder, managing to wipe his cheek against it. He strained to listen into the darkness, to get an idea where he was, to gather smells, sounds, touches that could enable him to piece together a picture, much like collecting the pieces of a puzzle without being able to see.

Crawford had taken the disks, streamers and fobs off him, snapped the handcuffs round his wrists and yanked a balaclava over his head, back to front, so that he could see nothing. Squeak and you're dead, he had warned in his cold, deadpan voice as he dragged Omi along, leaving him for a few moments – in the middle of the laboratory, Omi suspected, to plant whatever explosives he had brought – and then yanked him along, through some narrow, damp passage – the ventilation shaft, most likely – into the cold night.

Grass, earth, rain. The scrap of a sound, his heart leaping because it could have been Aya, but no, it was Schuldig bickering with Farfarello, loud and wound-up, pain in his tone. They bundled Omi onto the backseat of a car, and with relief he realised he was sitting next to Crawford, with Schuldig driving and Farfarello growling out his fantasies what he wanted to do to hurt God. Omi shrunk into himself at the memory; he had featured in those plans rather vividly and definitely not in one piece.

Now he needed the bathroom, his head felt strangely foggy, his mouth was parched. They had slung him up some stairs and plunged him into this room, torn the balaclava off him and left him. He knew better than to try talking to them; he could feel hands roam over his body and did not fight. Whatever they had planned, this he could survive. The smell of blood, sharp and sweet, wafted over him, a hand fleetingly slipped over his cheek, and the feathery touch of long hair tickled his neck. Then a door clapped, steps faded into deep darkness, and he had thought he was alone.

Now, his breathing appeared to have an echo. Nuts, he thought, Yohji thinks it's infectuous. We're all going bananas. He strained to hear, flared his nostrils, eyes bulging and unseeing. Like blind, he thought with another jolt of fear and pulled up his knees so that he was no more than a tight ball of bone and muscle on the edge of the metal bed. Creak, bounce, the mattress yielded easily, smelled mouldy. Old. The room smelled old. An old building. There had been few steps; he was on the ground floor. Absolute darkness; the room did not appear to have windows, explained the dank feeling of the air, some spare room, tucked away, a safe room perhaps, a bolthole not on any blueprints.

Breathing.  
Not his own.  
Close.  
Omi felt his skin crawl and his hands curl into fists.  
So close he thought it could touch him.

His legs tensed, thighs hardening, ready to kick at whatever lurched in the blackness. Keep your nerve, stay in control, breathe, heartbeat calm, pulse stay steady, head think clearly, listen, feel, let instinct guide you, quicker than thought, calm, controlled, feel...

He could sense it.  
Damp and warm.  
On his skin.

Blood like fire, air like boiling water, skin burning, covered in cold sweat, beads of it running from forehead and upper lip, salty, bitter, taste of fear, deep in gut, pit of stomach cramping, rising to throat, sick, fear, calm...

And in his mind hammered one thought only:  
Please, let it be quick. Please. Please. Please...

xxx

Next chapter: In The Dark


	30. Chapter 30 In The Dark

**30. In The Dark**

xxx

Thank you to all of you who read and reviewed. It was a long break, and I'm going to be slow updating, but here goes another chapter. I hope you'll enjoy.

xxx

A shriek pierced the uneasy stillness of the house.

"Fuck!" Crawford yanked away from Schuldig, ignoring the yelp of protest and the hands that scrabbled at his shoulders to pull him back down. "Let off," he snapped, already on his feet and hastily doing up his fly and belt. "Where did you put Far?"

"Into his cell, dammit," Schuldig groaned, clutching at his bleeding side as he slumped back onto the floor of Crawford's office. "C'mon, Brad, I'm not stupid."

"I heard someone scream!"

"None of us," Schuldig sulked, "I know how Nagi sounds, and Far doesn't scream."

Crawford tore at the doorknob and nudged Schuldig's arm with his foot. "In that case, we have even more reason to be concerned. I do not want our catch damaged. Move now or I'll kick your ribs in!"

Schuldig scrambled to his feet and Crawford was out of the door in a flash, Schuldig dashing after him, down the gloomy hallway. "Bloody hell, you're not supposed to be surprised!"

xxx

Yohji paced around the makeshift hospital container. He was smoking voraciously, lighting each new cigarette on the stub of the last one, leaving behind a trail of smouldering fags. Once he hailed one of the men who worked in the hall, shifting crates and sacks from a container onto the back of a lorry. Yohji scrounged a fresh packet of cigarettes, cracked a silly joke, made light. The man laughed, took payment for the smokes, and went back to his work.

Aya sat on the dank concrete, his back against the wall of the container, his head sunk onto his chest, the katana across his lap. He had tied strips of fabric, ripped from the hem of his tee-shirt, around his bleeding upper arms, and left it at that. Once the doctor was done with Ken, he would see to Aya's wounds; until then, Aya had blended out pain and the vague hollow sensation in his belly.

"So what do you think," Yohji hissed as he returned to him. "Hey, I'm talking to you!" He squatted before Aya and blew smoke into his face. "You saying I had a little chat with our friends?"

Aya slowly lifted his head. His gaze was unfocused, and it clearly was an effort for him to concentrate. "What?"

Yohji waved the cigarette at him. Ash flew off the glowing tip, and Yohji puffed a sharp stream of smoke from his nostrils. "You! You accused me of blabbering!"

Awkwardly, Aya turned his face aside to escape the stink of tobacco. "Can't this wait?"

With an angry grunt, Yohji jumped up and resumed pacing. Aya followed him with a wary gaze. Yohji rarely got worked up like this, all easiness, all warmth gone from him, drained away to reveal a wolf hunting, persistent, sly, and cruel. Ready to bite and tear and rip apart, patient in pursuit, and singleminded once set upon a trail.

Aya had the uncanny feeling that he was becoming the target of Yohji's current trail, and at the same time, he wanted nothing but sleep, here, now, wherever, leaden fatigue weighing him down, bloodloss making him queasy, along with the nagging unease at what had happened.

Yohji paused again, staring down at him through a cloud of smoke as though he wanted to pry right into his brain. Questioning, calculating, weighing and sizing him up as though they had never met before. "You… what did really happen while you were with them?" he finally said, his voice rather distant.

Any other time, he would have fussed over Aya's wounds, checked him over, made sure he was comfortable, regardless of any spat they might have had. He would have found some blanket and a coffee, propped Aya up and watched over him, anxiety and the wish to soothe clearly in his eyes.

That now were carefully blanked, holding nothing but a hard sheen. Aya shifted, bit his lip at a jolt of pain that shot from his injured arms right into his chest, and straightened anyway. The bleeding increased again, blood sapping freely through the thin bandages. "I told you." He would have liked to sound firm and even, but his voice was a thin, brittle wheeze, laced with pain and exhaustion.

"You told me a pack of fucking lies," Yohji snapped, his tone low and tight.

"Oh? And what about you… bedding their redhead?" Aya gasped, wincing at the words, the tone, the pain of his body and his heart. Had they not just tried to patch up their latest argument? It had been bad enough, and now… Yohji looked so very cold, so unforgiving… so unlike himself as he stared down at Aya, the hint of a sneer settling around his mouth that Aya had known soft and kissing…

"And getting him to help us save your hide?" Yohji dropped his last cigarette and ground it down with his heel, a slow, deliberate motion as though he needed this to vent some of what was going on in his mind. "'Cos that's what I did, damn you, I sold my ass to save yours, and now I fucking wish-" He broke off, swore, drew a deep breath and turned his back to Aya. He wiped his eyes and then stuffed his fists into the pockets of his coat jacket.

"That you'd not done it?" Aya jabbed at him, voice thready and fading, but poisonous with spite. "I didn't ask for it. In fact, you fucking spoiled it 'cos you can't help meddling, sticking your damn long nose into things that are not yours to poke around in! You think I'm daft enough to fail their stupid tests if I'd not meant to? If you'd not messed with my affairs, none of this would have happened."

Yohji whipped around and skewered Aya with a glare to rival his own. "Hai, seems you're talking right for once, loverboy, only that I didn't meddle enough. 'Cos it was you coming on to _him_ at the bloody party, you messing up that mission, and I shoulda known by then! But no, I meant to give you time, thought you'd need it, would come to me to talk it all off your mind sometime… And here I am, blond and dumb, for having believed you."

Aya gaped at him and slowly, without realising, clamped his right hand around the hilt of the katana. He lifted the other hand and began to rub slow circles over his chest where a nagging pain began to spread, seeping into his arms, his legs, his head. The air around him was too hot to breathe, so he tried to stop breathing, only to suck in a harsh gasp when his lungs clamoured for oxygen. The wounds were making his arms numb with a burning pain.

Yohji watched, crossing his arms, head thrust forward, his stance wide and quarrelsome. Waiting.

Aya swallowed at the lump in his throat, tried to speak, had to swallow a few more times before he could manage breathing, thinking and talking at the same time. "It's not like that." A coarse whisper, almost a moan.

Yohji shook his head. "Really. To think I came back for you…" He trailed off, and Aya closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the cold metal walls of the container. He had wanted to believe Yohji. Believe they could have something else but this, more than arguments and spite and mistrust, a life other than nights of murder and sex, sometimes crude, sometimes less so, and pretending normalcy by day, selling flowers to school girls.

He had desperately wanted to believe there could be another chance, for Yohji had told him it was right to hope, to live, to loosen up. So he had let down his guard, had allowed Yohji a glimpse into his soul, had given in to the distractions of passion and affection. It had taken long, and it had been painful. It had been hard to see his carefully crafted shell crack, and to dare to do nothing about it, not to repel the intruder…

Only once. Only once he had wanted to be able to love again. To trust. To be held and feel safe. To, perhaps, dream of a future that did not end in a pool of his own blood.

"Wrong," he whispered and began to laugh, silently, shaking with the idiocy of it all and the despair and scornful amusement at his own stupidity.

xxx

**Next chapter: Bogeyman**


	31. Chapter 31 Dirty Laundry

**31. Dirty Laundry**

Omi started when a distant thump, very much like the slamming of a door, echoed down some hollow space... _a hallway,_ he thought feverish, tucking himself back in hastily, _outside this damn cave... it sounded empty..._

He strained to discern more sounds, but all he could hear was the dripping of a tap – the sink, he realised – and the faint breathing of Nagi.

_So damn close... and he creeps me fuckin' out._

To move or not to move. Omi pondered, taking stock of how his body reacted – softly flexing his legs and arms, wrists numb from the cuffs, bruises everywhere but none too sore, his head swimming a little though...

_Not good enough for taking on the likes of Schwarz,_ he decided with a heavy heart. Weiss were having a hard time against their old adversaries in any case; falling way short of best form would make any attempt to hold his own a ludicrous endeavour.

"Are you done yet?" Nagi's oddly lifeless voice came from the darkness.

"Ah... hai, I am. Where are you?"

"Just get back to the bed."

"So you can cuff me again?"

"I wouldn't need to."

A faint trace of mockery, Omi registered crossly. "What's so funny then?"

"What's gonna happen in a moment."

"What?"

"You'll see. Are all of you this thick?"

"Excuse me?"

A cool touch to his wrist, a slight shove to the small of his back, and a moment later, he was tied to the bed again. "Well, I will. Excuse you. After all, this is not your fault – they did a runner and left you high 'n dry. Nice friends."

"Shut up."

"As you wish." The mattress dipped a little, and Omi could sense the chill of Nagi's presence. Prolonged silence followed, growing thick and heavy.

Omi bit his lip. "Okay, you won. Your folk aren't much better though, are they? Putting you up for bait?"

"So you saw enough at the laboratory."

Omi shuddered. "You're disgusting."

"Oh... that stuff has nothing to do with us."

"No? You work for the brother of that asshole who's paying for experiments like that."

"You haven't seen anything yet." Nagi's tone changed, from flat to tense, with a latent heat beneath the chill that made Omi's blood curdle. "Nothing," Nagi repeated. "You really have no idea."

"I have an idea of Mastermind's way of operating, and of your resident madman," Omi hurled back, wondering briefly whether provocation would actually get him anywhere with Nagi who seemed eerily calm.

"Really." Sarcasm, sharp as acid, dripped from the young voice. "Then you must know all about Siberian and Abyssinian, too... and about your boss, of course."

That cut. Omi liked to think he was in control most of the time, but Nagi had caught him exactly where it hurt – he knew nothing about Persia, he liked Ken too much, and he had lost it with Aya when it mattered... but it was Yohji who had truly abandoned him.

Omi tugged at his bonds. They clanked against the metal frame and cut hard into his arms. Suddenly, he felt the light press of Nagi's body against his own, and thin fingers closing around his wrists, massaging slightly. "They hurt, don't they?"

"Don't play soft on me," Omi managed hoarsely. The closeness of another reminded him of Yohji too much; the dreams and worries he had been sharing with the older man as though they were brothers, and the dreamy desire that had begun to wake in him of late whenever Yohji was around. And now he was lost and struggling to keep a clear head.

"Don't worry, I am not like that," Nagi said, and Omi could practically hear the distasteful wrinkling of his nose in his tone.

"And there I thought you're all into boffing each other," he snapped.

"_We're_ not like you."

Omi shifted uncomfortably. Just how much did Schwarz know about Weiss? "Well... Schuldig-"

"Stop digging. Don't you feel alone sometimes?"

_All the time._

"What do you want with me?" Omi said, wariness and utter desolation seeping through him.

"I have no idea what they're planning."

_Right, every little helps._

Down that hallway, another door banged, and then steps hurried – two pairs of steps, Omi registered, senses burning up between exhaustion and alertness again, and then he heard arguing voices, one cold, hard, clipped, the other one jittery and sulky.

**xxx**

"In Nagi's room!" Crawford shouted when they returned to his office, with Omi back in Crawford's bedroom, and Nagi alone in his own place. "When the hell-"

"When I went to piss in between, umh, us switching... thought we might need your room, after all..." Schuldig let it trail and chewed on a cold cigarette, trying to think of something else while weathering this storm, but Crawford would have none of it.

"What the hell were you thinking? Anything at all?" Crawford glared, eyes hidden behind the gleam of his glasses, mouth a hard white line. "There will be consequences, I promise you that," he said, his tone boiling with suppressed rage.

"You didn't say-"

"Don't!" Crawford strode back to his desk and slumped down in his leather chair. He took off his glasses and quickly wiped his eyes, before carefully replacing the glasses and staring at the redhead. "This was one step too far. If you do not wish to remain part of my team, you will have to let me know. I can arrange a transfer."

Schuldig caught his lower lip between his teeth and began to chew.

Crawford's glasses reflected the striplights overhead. He scorned fluffy stuff such as fancy desklamps or posh installations. "Antics… pranks… as long as they keep you amused, I have no problem. But if you risk what I am planning…" He did not shift, the initial rush of anger contained now behind an unmoving, icy façade. "I expect your suggestions before my meeting with Mr Takatori. For now, some sleep appears appropriate."

And Schuldig left, knowing he would not sleep, and neither would Crawford.

**xxx**

The next morning, Nagi met a dishevelled, haggard looking Schuldig on the steps of the backdoor into the park. Cigarette ends strewn around him, a newly lit cigarette wedged between thin, bloodless lips, red mane unkempt, and in nothing but sloppy jeans and an unbuttoned shirt, Schuldig was shivering in the chill air, and his blue eyes were dull when he glanced up at the youth.

"Was he nice?"

"Shut up," Nagi retorted, and stalked off into the park.

"Hey!" Schuldig yelled. "Wait the fuck!"

Nagi walked on, drawing up his narrow shoulders. Schuldig stared after him as his thin shape merged into the shadows of the old trees, and only when Nagi turned a corner and vanished behind a hedge did he jump up and trudge after him.

Schuldig had a long stride. He would catch up easily with Nagi who tended to dither and meander to look at flowers here and a beetle there... but when he rounded the same corner, and looked down a straight, seemingly endless tunnel between two hedges, walls of dark green box, he did not see the slight figure.

"Come out already," he shouted crossly, trailing his splayed hand through the myriads of leathery cool leaves. The air smelled of damp earth, dew and autumn. His breath formed dense little clouds of bluish white – cigarette smoke and chill. He chewed on the cigarette filter and rubbed his arm with his free hand in a futile attempt to generate some warmth.

Crawford had finally reached the end of his patience. Perhaps he had no need for Schuldig any longer. Maybe he did not need anyone anymore, now that they had the data they had been hunting for some time, and on which Crawford seemed to place so much importance. And Bombay, of course, who by rights should be dead by now, and who Crawford wanted to spare for some obscure reason... but then, Brad had always been a schemer and never good at explaining... and always, damn always right.

Schuldig kicked at the soft, leaf covered ground. Small leaves, large leaves, first faint blush of autumn, golden and copper... pretty things, dead things, dead pretty things, all things pretty must die, Farfarello liked to say in that odd, heated whisper of his, we don't do anything wrong by killing pretty things then, do we...

He took the cigarette out. "Nagi, stop playing mindfuck with me, that's my job," he yelled, then stuffed the cigarette back between his lips and scanned the long alley beneath the twilight canopy of old trees. "Nagi!"

His head hurt, the familiar ache throbbing deep inside, and beginning to sharpen behind his eyes. No chance of having it soothed away by Crawford this time – he was lucky not to get posted back home.

His eyes widened for a moment, then he squeezed them shut as he tried to fight down the revolting wave of sheer horror that tried to overwhelm him. It was vivid like a nightmare, but suddenly he detected something else, a presence unusual to those fits of terror, a much closer, more immediate sense of anxiety, a fear different from his own.

With a gasp, he snapped his eyes open and stared vacantly into the dusky space before him, then it hit him again, with unexpected violence – FEAR, HELP ME, ALONE, HELP...

"Nagi!" he yapped, and the cigarette dropped from his mouth as he set off jogging, then running, then racing down that endless alley that seemed to narrow into nothingness in the mist-faded distance.

And he felt as though he was looking down the barrel of Crawford's gun because he knew that his speed was useless.

For Nagi was gone.

**xxx**

Next chapter: Dark Shades of Red


	32. Chapter 32 Dark Shades Of Red

**32. Dark Shades of Red**

The cloth over his face, the stench of chloroform, mouth gaping wide to scream, only to suck in a lungful of the dope, panic making his body go rigid and cutting out his voice. Nagi clawed at the arm that clamped across his skinny chest from behind as he was hurtled deeper into the fog that rose in his mind – there was no chance to concentrate, to summon any of his strength.

He had been walking... walking as though he had never stopped walking since getting away from HOME. The park, so beautiful... he had bent to pick up a leaf that had looked particularly pretty on the gravelled pathway: a jagged five-lobed maple leaf, blushed a dark shade of crimson and fading into pale red towards the fingery edges. He had felt carefree and easy, because Schuldig was watching his back so that Nagi got to enjoy the stillness of the park, with its aroma of leaves and flowers and damp soil. The scents of life that never quite reached him... or Schuldig, or Farfarello. Not even Crawford.

They were all so hungry for life.

Yet this time, Nagi had walked off without making sure that Schuldig followed. Schuldig had been oddly put out. Or at least, odder than usual. His latest spat with Crawford, after Schuldig put Omi into Nagi's room, had been more serious than their usual bickering and teasing. And Nagi had been careless and wandered off, away from the dead chambers of the Takatori mansion, drawn by the irresistible force of life into the dusky depths of the park.

His assailant had known well how to knock him out. He knew where to go, he would have spent some time observing, patiently, carefully, and then he pounced at just the right moment to seize Nagi with no more than a rag and a surprise. The oldest trick in the book, really.

Now Nagi was waking to piercing brightness and a pounding headache. The light was white, cold and everywhere, and when he squeezed his eyes shut again, it seemed to seep through his very skin. He tried to gather his thoughts enough to check himself for injuries and began to grope down his own body, to discover that he was unhurt apart from a few bruises from the hard grip of large hands on his arms. But his initial relief gave way to shock when he realised that he was nearly naked.

Unclothed bar his briefs. His breath left him in a high-pitched whine as he snapped up into a tight curl, hugging his knees with his arms. Glaring light. Nothing to cover his bareness. Alone. Silence in which his pulse hammered with deafening intensity in his ears. Beyond control, as was his ragged breathing and the sweat that broke from his skin, pale and cold, even as he began to shake violently.

_Not true._

_A nightmare._

_Just a bad dream._

Schuldig's words trickled into Nagi's mind in his eternally mocking voice, but Nagi had come to know him well enough to filter out the tiny hint of concern, carefully buried beneath the sulky tone.

Schuldig. Someone he knew, here. Close. An anchor.

Nagi bit his lip to lock in a sob of horror and gratitude.

_Hey, kid, wake up, will ya?_

The floor was cold. Nagi shifted a little, his skin scraped over something rough and dank. He stuck out one finger from the fold of his arms to touch. Felt crumbs of dirt and something greasy. Concrete. Grease. He wrinkled his nose, the rising revulsion making his stomach cramp, but then he could smell the sharp reek of engine oil. Still heaving, he cracked open one eye and peered from beneath mussed bangs at his surroundings. Still white, chill and empty.

His thigh and arm rested in a patch of black grease. It stank, it was ugly and made him dirty. Nagi wriggled to get away from it. His skin was blueish white and goosepimpled, the fine hairs standing up with cold and fear. He hated fear and could not help drowning in it. The chloroform taste clung to his palate and made him sick. Really sick, not dream-sick, or nightmare-feverish. He knew how that felt; he had learned to handle it because he hated Schuldig going all soft on him. It made him feel intensely uncomfortable, like a child alone among adults because Schuldig was the one who never got a hold over himself...

But this was real, he was alone in this room – a square space, with a pair of strong white striplights let into the ceiling. They were meshed in with steel wire, beyond his reach, and sent their icy light down in an even, unwavering flood. Nagi opened his other eye and gathered enough presence of mind to take in the smooth steel door with no fittings on the inside, and the whitewashed walls with sallow stains from rising damp. The place smelled of mould, wet plaster, and a little bit of damp earth.

Like a cellar.

Like a grave.

No, worse. It smelled like back HOME.

Nagi was unable to swallow the next sob that wrenched from his throat, and he could not help the shudders that ran through his body. He withdrew his hand and tried to rub away the black smear on his arm, then his thigh. Having failed to do anything but smudge he clingy grease further, he curled up again, hands clutched to his stomach, cheek on the cold floor, and began to cry dejected little sniffles.

_Shut up, kid. They like it when you cry. It makes them strong. I never cry, I yell at them._

But there, on the cold floor in that cold, lonely room, Nagi could not yell.

Because something had stolen his voice.

xxx

Clad in no more than his sloppy jeans and a tee, Schuldig stared at Crawford with wide, flickering eyes. "I lost him. I lost him, Brad. It's all my fault. I know you'll send me back, I deserve it, I can see your point, I'm useless, can't even babysit the kid…"

Crawford, ghostly pale, polished his glasses. His nails whitened as he pressed his fingertips into the small cotton cloth, and he did not look at Schuldig. Unwashed and uncombed, feet bare and muddy, Schuldig had burst into Crawford's bedroom and babbled away frantically, and it had taken Crawford a moment to filter the jumbled stream of words that rushed at him. He knew it was pointless to tell Schuldig to shut up. Crawford had become used to simply blend out his talking while in his mind he was turning over his options. Precise, systematic and careful as always, if not as calm.

"Be quiet now," he said. He put the cloth into the chest pocket of his starched white shirt and slipped on his grey suit jacket. "Give me the tie over there. The red one, on the bed."

An elegant wine red silk tie, matching perfectly Crawford's fine suit of pale grey wool, and the spotless shirt. Schuldig snapped his mouth shut and did as he was bidden. Then he wrapped his arms about himself and watched Crawford loop the tie into a neat knot. Crawford did not need to look into a mirror, not even at his hands. He had his eyes cast down, half-closed, and only his clipped movements betrayed a little of the state of his mind.

He was mad.

He was also very nervous.

Schuldig shivered. This combination bode trouble, to say the least – Crawford rarely got worked up like this, and Schuldig knew it was the worst that could happen, for Crawford hated to be out of control. Now Schuldig was dying to talk, to let burst forth his panic, but under the circumstances it would have been more than unwise, and he bit his lip bloody to obey Crawford's order.

"I want you to take care of Farfarello," Crawford said, in an oddly flat tone.

It seemed too lifeless, too deflated for him, and Schuldig swallowed hard before scraping together enough courage to acknowledge the request. "Yes, Brad."

Crawford began to button up his jacket. "And sort out yourself. Wash, tidy your hair, change out of those rags. Wear something decent. Make sure Far looks presentable. I have to meet Takatori to discuss a few matters. Don't let Farfarello near Bombay; we cannot afford losing such an expensive asset yet." He closed the last button and smoothed the lapels as he lifted his gaze to meet Schuldig's eyes. "Then stay put until I am back. Just that. I trust you will be able to do this. I cannot deal with everything at once now, I need my head free."

Schuldig swallowed hard, adams apple bobbing, and fumbled for cigarettes. Crawford reached into his own suit jacket and threw an almost full packet at the redhead. "Here. We will talk when I come back."

Schuldig caught the packet and almost dropped it again because his hands were trembling. "Brad..."

Crawford blinked, adjusted his glasses and gave him a sombre glance. "Yes?"

"Who... who did it?"

"I do not know yet."

Schuldig tried to shake a cigarette from the packet and failed. Crawford stepped up to him, took the packet, lit a cigarette and stuck it between Schuldgig's lips. Schuldig pulled in a lungful of smoke and then, puffing a thick blue cloud, blurted out, "It was someone from back HOME!"

Crawford stood still, the smoke swirling about his face, his eyes hidden behind the lustre of the glasses.

"Brad?" Schuldig gasped past his cigarette and grabbed Crawford's arms.

"Please let go of me." Crawford's voice was strangely small. Schuldig stared, wideeyed, shocked at hearing him thus. No order. No shouts. No reprimands or barking of threats.

Schuldig let go, sagging into himself and against the headboard of the bed. Crawford straightened a fold in his jacket. "I have to go to this meeting now. It might be important to us. Do as I told you, and then wait. Take something to calm down."

"Would you really send me back?"

Crawford quickly, routinely, felt for the gun holster strapped to his chest, before walking to the door. He reached for the handle, then hesitated and half-turned back, his fingers closing over the metal knob as though he meant to crush it.

One dark eye behind a shiny glass lens meeting a pale blue gaze. Schuldig shook his hair back and took another nervous draught at his cigarette. Crawford pushed the door open a little. "No," he said quietly, "I would have shot you. I would have shot you before sending you HOME. We are not going back, none of us, not ever. We will not return to that place. We are a field team, we have nothing to do with HOME anymore. The cannot summon us back."

Schuldig sucked in a shallow breath. He did not close his mouth but let the smoke curl up from between his dry lips in lazy curls. Crawford made to step over the threshold when Schuldig said to his back, "Did you tell them that?"

And Crawford, already in the long, dark hallway, said over his shoulder, "Yes. I did tell them that some time ago." His voice faded as he walked, and Schuldig stayed put, propped up against the bed, and listened. "I swore that we will never go HOME again... none of my team... they will not have us back... they won't..."

xxx

Next chapter: Silence


	33. Chapter 33 Silence

**33. Silence**

Yohji washed bleach into his hair and pressed it out before looking up and meeting Aya's glance in the mirror. For a moment, they stared at each other, before Yohji returned to the task at hand, rinsed the sink, wiped his face and dried it. He bunched up the towel and threw it at the laundry basked, missing narrowly, before turning to Aya. "See anything you like?" He crooked a grin as he measured Aya with a heated gaze.

"Iie," Aya said, crossing his arms. "Not right now."

"How come?" Yohji snapped, sliding up to Aya and cupping his backside with strong fingers, fairly pinching the warm flesh.

Aya went rigid. In all the wrong places in Yohji's opinion, but the redhead shoved against him vigorously. "Did you have to do that?"

They had crept home when the doctor at the warehouse had patched up Ken enough for him to survive the car trip to the Koneko. Now the house was filled with a thick, cold silence, woven through with Ken's pained moans. Aya had washed first, taking forever in a parody of their usual bathroom pecking order after a mission, and rebandaged his own wounds. He had taken as many painkillers as he dared, and now he was so white that his skin seemed almost transparent and his lips an ashen blue. Yohji, though hurt and pale too from bloodloss, had spent time making coffee strong enough to wake a bull. He had also cooked rice and wolfed down a large portion with soy sauce. When Aya was done, Yohji washed down and went to sleep without speaking to him again. The next morning he was gone, heedless of Ken who tossed semi-delirious on his bed, or Aya who felt faint enough to die. Yohji had business to attend, and when he returned late that night, he carried a large bundle wrapped in layers of sacking. He dumped his load into the cellar. Only when Aya went to see for himself did he find out what Yohji's business had entailed.

And now Yohji let go and sidestepped Aya to gain the door, but Aya would have none of it. He grabbed hold of Yohji's arm and clawed into the pressure points between muscle and bone. "Did you?"

Yohji shot him a glare. "Let go, Ayan."

"Answer me. He's just a kid."

Baring his teeth, Yohji almost laughed. The croaked, ugly sound he made deep in his throat had something feral. "Look, pretty, if you wanna go soft in your old age, that's your fuckin' business. But they took Omi, and that's mine as much as it should be yours. Say Ayan, when was the last time you cared about anyone but your sister? Well, screw you, I got just our team for my family, and I'd rather pack it in than give up without a fight."

He yanked at his arm. Aya held on fast. "Odd," he said, his voice cool and somewhat soft, "how much you sound like Schuldig."

Yohji froze. "What?"

Aya let go of his arm. "The things he told me… you sound like him. Schwarz being his family, and such like. What do you think he's going to do? If you damage the kid, we can forget about Omi, and possibly about Weiss." He leaned against the wall by the door, opening the way for Yohji. "He was crying earlier on. He should have his clothes at least, and a few blankets. He's had nothing to eat or drink, and he had to piss into a corner. The basement stinks now. Did you cook this up?"

Yohji bit his lip. "No. Not that. Guess I just forgot. But I remember-" what they did to you, he had meant to say, but Aya cut him short, his tone oddly lifeless.

"I told you, it was not what you think. And he had no part in it."

"So what about his so-called powers? This almighty fury?" Yohji grated, leaning against the doorjamb opposite Aya, crossing his arms to mirror Aya's pose.

Aya shrugged. "Did it ever occur to you that he might not want to use them? Perhaps it's not what we think. Besides, you are the one who slept with Schuldig. You should have asked him, he might have told you more than me."

Yohji winced. "Hey-"

Aya glared. "You did." Not a question. "You pity him, too. Was he that deep in your pants? Wormed himelf into your ass and your head? Tell me, Yotan!"

"I should ask YOU," Yohji hurled back, "you've been nuts since they got hold of you. What you did back at that party… man, Ayan, you blew a mission for the sake of snogging Schuldig! Did they all do you?"

Aya stared, eyes wide and impossibly purple through his contacts, and beneath the colour lay swirling darkness that opened into a black abyss. "No," he said, barely above a whisper, "you did. Him… I wanted him, I wanted someone, something, so I could hurt. Know what, Yohji? I felt nothing. I fell away and felt nothing of what they did, only for what we've become. All of us. Even you. Even you, Yohji."

Yohji swallowed hard. For a heartbeat, they stood in silence, then Yohji opened his mouth and made to unfold his arms, but the phone shrilled in the shop, and the moment shattered. They both scrambled to pick up the call, with Aya reaching first and yanking the receiver off the hook. "Kitten in the-"

"Good evening," a cool, becalmed voice greeted him. "We should meet."

"We just did," Aya ground out, waving to Yohji who already slipped the headset on that they kept hidden beneath the counter. "What is it you want, Oracle?"

"You are brighter than that, Abyssinian. Let me suggest an exchange, fair and square. You have no use for the boy. Neither have I." He paused; Aya said nothing. Yohji shivered a little and ruffled through his bleaching hair. "But he is of some value to our superiors, therefore he should be returned, unless you want to throw everything into disarray."

"How?" Aya tried to sound calm.

"You would not understand, and I do not wish to explain. I hope I am making myself clear: it would be an inconvenience, but not an impossibility for me to justify his disappearance. Return him to us, in whichever condition, and your team co-ordinator will walk free. We merely meant to talk to him."

"I know how that works," Yohji hissed.

A long pause followed, with the soft clicking of the tap in the back of the shop the only sound in the stillness, before Aya said, "Where should we meet?"

**xxx**

Crawford carefully replaced the receiver and leaned back in his leather armchair. Perched on the edge of the desk, Schuldig stared at him. "Well?"

Crawford lifted his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, before dropping them back into place and blinking up at Schuldig. He looked tired and let it show. "They bought it."

"He's hurting," the redhead snapped, "I can feel that much! You shouldn't have waited!"

"If you had done your job properly, Nagi would be here now," Crawford countered, barely raising his voice, yet his tone as sharp as steel. "Just pray that we get him back in one piece and that they are not too riled up now. It would have been worse had someone taken him HOME, but we cannot foresee what they are planning."

"Not even you know?"

Crawford pressed his lips together in a thin, mirthless smile. "I do not need a gift to understand that Eszet will have my ass if I lose one of our team; I am not Mr Popular with our masters. They are just waiting for that sort of thing."

Schuldig shuddered. "I cocked up. And my head hurts," he said, unable to sound anything but querulous and rather helpless. "What was your meeting about, Brad?"

Crawford got up and without ado, pulled him close. "Listen," he said calmly into swathes of copper, against Schuldig's sharp cheekbone, "I will have to travel."

Another shiver, running through the younger man from head to toe, but Schuldig merely listened.

"The Venerable Masters," ah, a slight tinge of sarcasm, "saw it fit to recall me to the Lodge for the next Conclave."

"Another brainwash. But… you alone?" Schuldig murmured, his eyes widening and his hand coming up to clutch at Crawford's waist.

"Yes. Do not worry too much. I don't think they will elevate me to the next Degree, but they still need me." He smiled vaguely, passing his hand through Schuldig's hair. "You're all tensed up."

"Yeah, well, big deal, whatcha expect…"

Crawford's fingers curled up, fisting in Schuldig's hair. "I need you to behave. We have the data. We will find someone prepared to work them for us, and Bombay understands well enough what we are after."

"Is that it? You didn't meet with the old dragon this morning, did you?"

Another thin smile. Crawford combed through Schuldig's messy mane, slowly if not quite tenderly. "It is not in the interest of Weiss to have Kritiker and Eszet to come to certain arrangements, nor would any of us like to see our good masters conquer the world. He also understands that we are better placed than Weiss ever will be to stop it from happening. I also think he understood what he might find for himself – he is still not sure about his roots. Never mind our own little agenda."

Schuldig turned his head until they were eye to eye, frosty blue boring into bottomless darkness as they exchanged a long glance, before Schuldig let his head droop again. Crawford tugged at his hair. "Pull yourself together. Once we got what we need, any pharmaceutical company will be happy to pay up for the data. I have a few clients lined up for just that kind of transaction, people who would never conduct those tests themselves, but who aren't quite as scrupulous when it comes to using this material." He hooked his fingers under Schuldig's chin and forced him to look up, meeting his gaze. "We will get through all that. I have seen it."

Schuldig lost himself into those intense eyes, but then a slow smirk stole over his face. "Ah… your precious gift, does it work then?"

Crawford leaned down for a kiss to a sweaty white forehead. Brushing aside sticky strands of hair, he murmured, "Sometimes, when it is useful. Now, I would like to go to bed, and you need to sort out my travel arrangements tomorrow. You should sleep too."

"Mind me crawling in with you?" Schuldig tried to sound cocky, but his voice was hoarse and his tone nervy, and he did not often ask like this.

Crawford firmly gripped Schuldig's elbow. "Come then."

**xxx**

Next chapter: Deals


	34. Chapter 34 Deals

**34. Deals**

Yohji did not bother to undress but threw himself onto his unmade bed and grabbed a random dirty magazine from the mess on the floor in his room. The place smelled stale and cloying, of unwashed clothes, cold cigarette smoke and pot. It was stuffy and dank. A single white rose stood in a narrow black vase on his bookshelf. It had lost most of its petals that lay scattered, jaundiced and shrivelled, on the floorplanks.

Flat on his back, legs sprawled wide, Yohji was smoking in long lazy draughts while leafing through the pages of the glossy mag. On his lips played a vague smirk, his gaze was distant, without interest. _Even you, Yohji_, Aya's voice echoed in his mind, and he had turned it over and over in his thoughts to figure out why Aya had sounded so odd.

Yohji had attempted to analyse Aya's tone and failed. Bitter – no, Aya was too level, too cold for that. Spiteful – nope, not this time: too tired, Yohji mused sarcastically; bloodloss and exhaustion had made Aya too weak for spite. So what, disappointed? Lost? Hopeless?

Yohji's eyes glazed over for a moment before he blinked the thought away. Useless. All this was idle nonsense now that Schwarz had caught Omi, and the spectre of betrayal hovered over Weiss.

A fingerlength of cigarette ash dropped onto his chest and he brushed it off absently. Aya had gone to look after Ken who was slipping in and out of consciousness, his medication making him too drowsy to do more than drink a few sips of water and use the bedpan. Aya should not have to do that, Yohji mused, he should not have to nurse Ken because he was badly hurt himself, bleeding through the bandages around his upper arms in big, wet patches.

Yohji dropped the magazine onto his face and stared into the blackness between the tented pages. It smelled of ink and paper glue. He breathed in deeply, lifted his hand with the cigarette and realised he could not smoke like this. With a sigh, he shoved the magazine aside and got up. Aya had not asked a single question when Crawford requested the meeting. He had accepted place and time – forty eight hours from now, Crawford had said, precisely. We will be at the old warehouse next to the burned out tanker, in the abandoned area of the old docks.

A couple of days. There was no telling what Schwarz would do.

Yohji stared after a curl of smoke that swirled lazily from his nostrils. When he had gone to snatch Nagi, nothing had mattered any longer but to get Omi back – you are the worst, Yotan, the young man's words rang in his mind, 'cos you let me down when I needed you most...

He had done it again. Run when he should have stayed, cowed where he should have fought.

Yohji raked his hand through his hair and covered his eyes.

xxx

Crawford sat opposite Omi whose slight shape was almost dwarfed by the massive desk between them. Schuldig, jittery and feverish, murder gleaming from his eyes, was guarding the door to Crawford's office. Omi could feel his glances like stabs of a dagger, and he did not even want to begin thinking about Farfarello...

It would have been easier had he been able to see Crawford's eyes, but they were hidden behind the gleam of elegant rimless glasses, and Crawford's expression was carefully blank, his body language non-existent. He radiated nothing but emptiness, a smartly suited non-presence in a large leather chair.

"Are you hungry?" Crawford asked, and Omi thought that even his voice was toneless, neutral, easy to forget, near impossible to remember.

"Yes," he said truthfully. No point struggling against simple questions, brace yourself for later instead, get what you can out of your captors, play along, gain time, latch on anything that can preserve your strength – a basic principle, and Omi was determined to hold out for as long as he could...

He rubbed his hands that were cuffed behind his back, his arms looping around the backrest of his chair. He had been cold since arriving at this place, since Schwarz had laid hands on him, as if their frozen souls had begun to drip into his own mind.

Nonsense.

He shook his head and stilled abruptly when he found Crawford watching him intently. He could FEEL it, as he could sense the presence behind him – a wildfire yet cold, so very cold, like Nagi but Nagi had been still, a silent chill, like the blackness of Death.

Omi gasped and blinked a few times.

"Schuldig, go and get him something to eat. And coffee," Crawford ordered in the same bland tone, and then the pressure of Schuldig's glare eased off and the door thudded shut after the redhead who slid silently from the room.

xxx

The boy crouched in the far left corner of the room, his arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees, his hair falling over his eyes that stared at Aya.

"Rice and green tea," Aya said, cautiously setting down a plastic container, a plastic bottle, and a folded blanket. "It's still warm."

Nagi's gaze was empty, unblinking darkness.

Aya stayed by the door. "Are you afraid?"

A shiver ran through Nagi's skinny frame. "No." His voice small, his tone cold.

Startled, Aya realised that he had been prepared for misery or pleas, that tears would have been more fitting for the situation, and that Nagi's tone irritated him. "My partner is pissed off."

A slow, steady blink, then a sound that was almost a snarl, but perhaps, Aya mused, he had misheard. Nagi began to rock back and forth, slow and steady like the ticking of a clock. "Yes."

In spite of himself, Aya gripped his throbbing arm. His fingers touched sticky warmth, blood seeping through his bandages and the cloth of his black jumper. He felt faint, and somewhere at the back of his mind a voice insisted he leave, now... "Why don't you-"

"Your sister," Nagi cut in, in the same flat tone, his glare steadily on Aya, "how is she?"

The words, slow and deliberate, hit Aya like a train, stealing his breath and making the world around him drop away until there was nothing but light, blinding him, and those bottomless eyes that held his gaze, drawing him in and draining the warmth from his limbs.

Nagi tensed and rose, his pallid skin scraping over the mouldy plaster, flakes of whitewash clinging to the fine hairs and drifting down, to settle around his bare feet like snow in summer. "Getting better? No? And it's all your fault."

Aya swallowed hard. His throat was dry. "You're just a kid. What do you know?"

Nagi let his arms dangle by his sides, giving Aya a blatant view of his body. "Really."

No, it drifted through Aya's pain-addled mind, no kid anymore...

"I know how you sound when you get screwed by Mastermind. I know you were stepping in to shield Balinese, back at that party. Mastermind found that... cute." An little snark tugged at Nagi's pale lips. He still had traces of tears on his cheeks, and his eyelids were sore from crying. He nodded at the rice bowl. "I'm not going to eat that stuff."

And before Aya could reply, the rice bowl and the bottle flew across the room, to crash against the opposite wall, rice and tea splashing about, and Aya was caught in a firm clasp around his wrist.

"That's fine," Yohji said frostily, "then lick it off the floor, you lil' creep."

"Yo-"

"Aya. C'mon."

Black and red clouds were drifting across a slowly rotating world of light and shadows as Aya let himself be hauled up the stairs to his bedroom, in his mind the echo of the door to the cellar banging shut.

"He was playing you like a fiddle." Yohji leaned over Aya as he let him slide onto the futon, and watched him, a spark of concern in those green eyes. "Man, Ayan..."

Aya turned his face into the futon. "Go away, Yohji. Ken..."

"Is bunged up with enough painkillers to last him until we're back. He'll be okay."

"But-"

"I told him." Yohji leaned down and braced his arms to either side of Aya's head, his weight half on Aya's body, one knee sliding up between Aya's legs. "Do you hate me, Aya?"

Aya's hands fisted in the sheets.

He did not answer.

xxx

Next chapter: Crossing Over


	35. Chapter 35 Crossing Over

**Remember the rating: M - men with men!**

xxx

**35. Crossing Over**

"I will be frank." Crawford stared into Omi's narrowed eyes. "Provided we can come to an understanding."

Omi swallowed hard and managed to stay still. Not recoiling from this probing glare, as invasive as a snake up his backside, or from the flat voice that betrayed nothing, Smooth and polished, a mountain of glass, impossible to climb. "I am listening."

The stillness in the room was impenetrable. Omi could not help from crawling a little into himself, comforted by the soft sound of clothes sliding over skin. He felt like facing a corpse, a talking, barely breathing dead man walking.

"Do you want to go home?"

A hearbeat, the blink of an eye, the sudden, startling burn of tears pressing against his eyes in a way he could barely control, Omi swallowed a sob and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Yes," he rasped, barely audible.

"Yes," Crawford repeated in a way that made Omi wonder whether he really spoke, or whether his voice had merely wormed its way into Omi's mind. "Of course."

He fell silent again, and Omi listened instinctively. Stillness, then the distant echo of hurried steps, approaching until the door swung open and Schuldig burst into the room. He slammed it shut and set a high-edged tray of grey plastic onto Crawford's desk. A few slices of stale white bread, curling at the edges, a white plastic mug of black coffee that reeked of cheap instant powder, and one single white sugar shape formed like a cat without a tail.

In spite of himself, Omi felt faint at the sight of food and coffee, and he had to make an effort to keep his composure. Schuldig smelled of sweat and too much nicotene, cheap soap and some expensive aftershave, an incongruent mix that made Omi nauseous, and then it hit him - the pong of fear.

Cool, long fingers spidered down his arms, stroking muscles and sinews, teasing, provoking, and he forced his mind to go blank under Crawford's dispassionate, almost curious gaze. The cuffs clicked open and the touch fell away along with the hard warmth of steel on skin. In spite of himself, Omi felt his skin crawl. Schuldig let the cuffs dangle from his forefinger and drew breath as if to say something, but Crawford was quicker.

"Go." He did not even look at the firehead, who withdrew without argument, obedient like a dog.

Omi, distracted for a moment, glanced up at Crawford when the door fell shut. "How do I know it's clean?"

"Because it's logical."

"You mean, you could have snuffed me before? You might wanna make me blab instead."

"Ah, of course. But in such cases, we tend to work with more... efficient means. Injections always work." A tiny shrug. "Well, take it or not."

Omi hesitated another moment of two, and then grabbed the tray, set it onto his lap, and tore into the bread.

Crawford lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. "You want to go home."

Omi shot him a hostile glare. "Hmph."

Crawford watched him through swirls of smoke. "We don't."

xxx

Yohji let his full weight settle against Aya's back and propped himself onto his left elbow. He slid his right hand down Aya's flank and under his jumper, wedging his fingers between Aya's stomach and the waistband of his trousers until he could cup Aya's middle. "Yanno what, Ayan?" Yohji rasped heatedly, with a sharp nip to Aya's ear. "I don't care. I don't give a flying fuck... you're talking so much bullshit it'd make a cow sick, but you're getting hard... yeah, like that..."

A tiny, choked sound shuddered through Aya's prone form. Yohji ignored it, roughly massaging Aya's flesh. Yanking and tearing at the soft skin with his callused hand, wrapping around Aya as if he wanted to squeeze him into oblivion, willing him to push and shove, to get worked up and rock-hard, oozing into Yohji's grip. "See? Tell me you want it. I wanna hear you say you want this."

Aya bit into the pillow. Yohji gave a sharp tug, and Aya gave a muffled yelp as he jolted. He could not run now, pinned as he was by Yohji's weight and his knee between Aya's thighs, high enough to squeeze his middle. Making Aya ride that thigh with ever increasing intensity until he was rocking against it in sheer abandon. Yohji held him as if by a leash.

"Ah... Yohji... let me..."

"Oh no, you won't," Yohji hissed, sliding his fingers up to pinch the top of Aya's flesh until Aya withered a little and slowed his squirming. Yohji was hovering over him, his hair a tangled mess, hanging over his face as he leaned down to kiss Aya's head, his temple, his ear. "Say it."

"Ngh..."

Yohji resumed his kneading and prodding. "You told Schuldig, didn't you? You fucking hypocrite. C'mon, spit it out, it's not that difficult, isn't it? Say, please fuck me." A particularly vicious tug, Aya gasping into his pillow, his fingers clenching, clawing into the edge of the futon as he tried to evade Yohji's touch. Pushing forward, into his fist, and back, against his thigh, riding up on the futon until Aya's head and Yohji's shoulder were thumping against the thin wall to Ken's room.

"Now who's the slut, Fuji?" Yohji hissed, pressing his hardness against Aya's hip. "You like this? I know you do. I'm not choosy, I'll have you any way I can get you, just..."

"Please." A pained gasp, barely there.

Yohji paused, then eased off just a little. "Then pull down your damn pants."

xxx

The blanket draped around his narrow shoulders, Nagi knelt on the cold, dirty concrete. His face a mask of utter concentration, he picked up rice grains, one by one, collecting them into a soggy white heap in the palm of his left hand. It gave him something to do, something to occupy his mind, a focus for his will around which to weave a cocoon of stillness, to shut out everything else - the coldness, Balinese's anger that had made him kick the rice bowl across the room, the fears that racked him, the stench of HOME that clung to this room, to his skin, to his very insides...

For a moment, Nagi stilled, his heart skipping a beat as white agony lanced through him, and then he slowly resumed his task, willing his fingers to move, his arm to stop shaking, his shoulders to relax until his body uncoiled.

//Good boy.//

A small shudder, a drop of warmth like blood on snow.

A tiny twitch of thin lips, as close to a smile as Nagi would get.

"Yes," he whispered. "Good boy."

xxx

The sharp chirping of the mobile had Yohji grope for the receiver. He did not pause as he picked up the call, burying himself to the root in Aya's heat. "Kit-"

"Yes."

"Manx... ah... whatcha want?"

"Whom are you fucking? No, I don't want to know. I haven't had a mission report yet."

Yohji kept moving, buttocks flexing as he pushed in and drew back, watching himself slide slickly into Aya's body. Aya lay still, hips canted up just enough to allow access.

"You'll get it as soon as we get round to it," Yohji snapped.

"Don't get shirty with me, blondie. Do you have the data?"

"Yep."

"Then send it down."

"I'm afraid I can't."

"Why?"

"Because we haven't decoded the stuff yet."

"No need. We'll do that."

"Hah... ah... oh man... why's that then?"

"Jesus, it's like having 'phone sex. You're a pig, Balinese."

"Your... hmmm... loss... ah, ah, ah..."

"C'mon, lose your rag already so we can get this over and done with."

"Nope... we... should talk-"

"Listen now, send the data and be done with. Funds will be transferred as soon as I have the report. Where's Bombay anyway? I hate it when I have to talk to you idiots."

"He's busy," Yohji rasped curtly.

"Busy?"

"Yep... haaah..."

"You're an asshole."

"I'm IN one."

"Too much detail."

"The computer's locked, I can't get it done until Omi's back... gone cramming, I think."

"Then get him to call."

The moment the call clicked off, Yohji flung the 'phone aside and let rip, slamming himself home with a few more frantic shoves. Aya shook beneath him, clutching the pillow, his arms bleeding. A sob shuddered through his firm frame as he spilled himself, soiling his sheets. Yohji slumped down on him and wrapped his arms around Aya's, and for a while there was nothing but their panting that ebbed away slowly until only silence remained.

xxx

"I don't like it." Manx leaned back in her swivel chair and glanced up at the tall, dark man behind her.

He smiled and leaned down, cupping her throat with both hands. "Always on edge..."

"Always a cop," she retorted. "You should know."

"And yet," his hands massaged her neck with firm, smooth upstrokes, "you let me do this. Letting down your guard..."

"Not really." She closed her eyes, her body strumming with tension. "They're up to something."

"They want the money. They'll give us what we need."

"What if Schwarz-"

"We will be careful."

xxx

Next chapter: Secrets

xxx


	36. Chapter 36 Secrets

**36. Secrets**

Aya lay still, his head turned to the side, his breathing levelling out much quicker than Yohji's frantic gasps. "Yohji."

His tone caught Yohji by surprise - calm, deep, running through him like a tremor and washing over Yohji with a shower of goosebumps. He squirmed and strained, slowly brushing sweaty red bangs from Aya's cheek. Aya did not move or look at him. Yohji hugged him firmer. "Ayan..."

Aya let go of a deep breath. "It's never going to work. Why can't you see this?"

Yohji felt himself sink a little more against his trim form as he played with a strand of crimson, twisting it and watching it spring back to smooth and straight. "I don't know... habit?"

"You like playing dumb?" Aya's fingers twisted from the shelter of Yohji's hand to cup it, tracing sharp knuckles and kneading long, wire-scarred fingers. "We are too different."

"How?" Yohji murmured, relaxing into Aya's touch.

"I like what I do. You don't. I'm not afraid of dying. You are." Aya tensed, Yohji raised himself a little on his elbows, to allow him to half-turn onto his side. Aya looked up at him unsmilingly. "I don't think hope is useful. You still have a chance, Yohji. I don't."

Yohji stared down at him, the echo of his voice filling Yohji's mind. Dry words, free of grief or self-pity. "You sound like-"

Aya shrugged, winced with pain, and Yohji shuffled back and sat up to ease the pressure on him. "Ayan..."

"I am... I am here instead of somebody else. You're still talking of her in your dreams." Aya struggled to sit up. "And you like your idea of me. Of Ran. You don't like me."

Yohji seized him and pulled him up and close. "Ah, here we go again... man, Ayan. You sound so... reasonable, but people change, don't they? We all change, somehow."

Aya loosely wrapped his hurting arms around Yohji and laid his face against Yohji's shoulder. "Even you."

//Even you.//

Yohji sat still, between Aya's knees, the reek of sweat and blood mingling with the smells of sex and stale tatami mats. "Somebody's gotta do it," he murmured hoarsely. "Somebody's gotta like you, Ayan."

A small shudder ran through Aya. A laugh, or at least something close to a chuckle, Yohji could tell, and he felt a little lighter for it. A smile curved his lips as he ran his fingers through Aya's hair. "You look such a mess now. Smoke some pot, you'll sleep better."

"What are you planning?"

"Look how Kenken's doing; he's been too quiet. Fake a mission report so that red bitch stops yapping for a while."

Aya quirked a grin. "You're not going to fool her for long."

Yohji shrugged. "Just buying time. I'm not sure whether Omi would like her to know. Or what she'd do if she found out. It's just a hunch, really, but I'd rather scrape around a bit before giving her the news." He slowly stroked Aya's back, from neck to bottom, to linger at the dip between Aya's buttocks. A small pause, then, "You're sticky..."

Aya snorts. "I'll wash."

"Ay-"

"I'll wash." He is up and on his way to the bathroom down the hall without another word.

Yohji brushes over the soiled, rumpled sheets and one-handedly lights a fag. "Fuck you too, Fuji," he mumbles, barely above his breath.

xxx

Slowly, Omi ate while trying to focus, reeling off scenarios and possibilities, combining and calculating. The coffee helped. Knowing Schuldig was not in the same room helped, too, and he firmly blended out any thoughts of Farfarello or Nagi.

Crawford had lit the second cigarette. The air conditioning was off, the room blue with smoke and tension. "You wonder why you are here but you won't ask me to tell you. You are playing my game, Bombay."

Omi glanced up blankly, mouth full with stale bread. "Two can."

Crawford reached into his shirt pocket and laid a black disc case onto the desk. "Perhaps it would be better to come to an agreement."

"Why should we?"

"Because you are here. You are alone. You have been hunting for certain pieces of information for a long time without informing your organisation. They might say you breached security rules by exposing yourself more than necessary, using their equipment and resources for your own personal gain, and ignoring their orders."

Omi huffed. "How is this different from what you are doing?" He was half-bluffing, driven by instinct, subconscious, curiosity - or perhaps the rush of the chase even now as he was meeting Crawford's cold gaze. It usually made sense to pay heed to a hunch, according to Yohji... "I'm here because you wanna offer me a deal. Something out of regs, out of sight, right? Go on then, perhaps I'll consider."

"Don't get cocky." Crawford did not raise his voice or change his tone. "You are here because I believe you know what you are doing."

"Flattery, yeah."

A tiny twitch in the corner of that thin-lipped mouth broke the symmetry of Crawford's face. It looked oddly out of place. "Credit where it's due. But I will make an exception." A nod at the disc. "Your clients might be displeased if you return without result. This is part of the data we obtained from the laboratory."

Omi could not help but shrink back, his stomach churning and making the last mouthful of bread taste bitter-sour.

"We keep the rest," Crawford said, snagging his gaze again, and Omi knew the man read him as clearly as a newspaper. Nearly twice as old as Omi and just as wily, with the advantage of experience and training, he was calling the shots, even though Omi realised he was being treated carefully.

//Like some blind ammo, you never know what sets it off.// "And you want what in exchange?" He was glad that his voice did not shake.

"We want to be left alone."

"Then stay out of our patch. We chased down that sicko, and we raided the lab. We can still hunt you down."

"Perhaps. You will find that he cannot confirm any of that anymore, and that the lab has disappeared. The only evidence are the records we obtained."

Omi stared at the disc and felt his throat go dry. Manx would be mad. Persia would be more than displeased. "So..." He had to swallow and wiped his face with the back of his hand. "What is it you're giving me?"

"Everything - files, pictures, vids, lab logs."

"And what do you keep?"

Crawford slowly blew a stream of smoke from his nose and squashed out his cigarette in a large stainless steel ashtray on his desk. "He was messing with the human genome. Genetic experiments with stem cells, embryos, tissue cultures. Cross-species series and sensory enhancements."

A shudder ran through Omi. He fisted his hands in his lap to hide the tremor. Crawford pushed the cigarettes across the desk. Omi lit up without a word.

"One of the files on your disk holds a sequence of DNA tests. Prodigy found them and thought you might like his present, so I included them."

"He found them?"

A fine smirk that did not reach Crawford's eyes. "As he does."

Warily, Omi drew a lungful of smoke and let it go in a long, deep breath. "They're for private viewing?"

"That's up to you."

"What's in it for you?"

"Who knows?" Crawford flicked some ash into the tray. "I intend to let Kritiker know we have the rest of the stuff, but not yet."

"You want to sell it to them?"

"I want to sell it. Until then, it might work as our insurance."

"Ah... that night... we would have been gone, but somebody had altered the firewall."

"Prodigy did a good job. Like the night before Christmas - suddenly all was frozen." Oddly, there was no spite in Crawford's voice, and his expression relaxed somewhat. "I intend to take you back tomorrow night. I think Balinese is most likely to collect you."

xxx

Omi lay back on the bed that felt uncomfortably big and soft, and folded his arms behind his head. Staring up at the ceiling, he was thinking. Wondering what Crawford held in store for him, what those files meant, where Nagi had gone... and the others, for that matter. Schwarz had the unsettling habit to melt away as if they had no substance at all, and Omi caught himself thinking he preferred them within sight.

//Jesus... the way Aya came back... way to go, Yohji went to pick him up, of course...//

A fresh wave of bitterness washed over him, and he let it flow, fill him to the brim until it pushed against his eyes and made him grope for a corner of the sheet to wipe his nose with.

xxx

"So?" Schuldig crouched at Crawford's feet and hugged his knees.

"Get up, you look like a dog. If we play this well, we might even gain. The data I managed to decode will be useful, something to hold off the wolves for a while. I was wondering why Kritiker want them so bad."

"Because," Schuldig rose and perched nervously on the edge of the desk, "Persia wants to shove his ass onto his brother's place? And bang, he'd be back in business, just like that." He clicked his bony fingers. "Making perfect clones of anyone who pays enough. Wow."

"Customised," Crawford corrected him, not quite calm beneath his veneer of composure.

For a few heartbeats, their eyes met, and Crawford read sheer terror behind the customary frosty disdain in Schuldig's face. "I think they're already working on it, back HOME," he said quietly. "Making better versions of us. Tell me, what does happen to failed experiments?"

Schuldig ground his teeth.

"I need Bombay to get back to us. He will. He will have more questions than answers once he's decoded that file. I need Kritiker to have an interest in our goods before our good masters get pissed off in earnest. It's all in the timing."

"So that's why you're going HOME?" Schuldig rasped.

"To find out how they are progressing, yes. And to tell them how successful we've been."

xxx

Next chapter: Exchange


	37. Chapter 37 Exchange

**Thank you to all my readers and in particular to those lovely people who keep sending me such encouraging reviews. I'm slowing down a bit, I know, but you do keep me going even though this is only a rather short chapter - a glimpse of HOME through Crawford's eyes...**

xxx

**37. Exchange**

Crawford stood by the window of his office, comfortable with the bareness of the white walls and the flood of cold light from the striplights. He was smoking, a mug with cold coffee untouched on the windowsill. The suite of rooms Schwarz had been given lay in deep silence, only the laptop on Crawford's desk was blinking, a white square on an empty blue screen.

He was waiting.

Schuldig had dosed up with painkillers and downers to help him keep calm and get some sleep. Farfarello was in his cell, singing quietly to himself and hugging his knees while rocking back and forth on his heels. Childen's tunes with lyrics of his own making, which in Crawford's opinion was not a comfortable mix.

His jacket was draped over the back of his chair. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar, and stared into the darkness outside while the reflection of the cursor glittered in his glasses.

//HOME.//

He swallowed, adam's apple bobbing, and took a deep drag from his cigarette.

//Welcome back, Oracle.// A disembodied voice, neither male nor female, a low, even current deep in his mind...

//Not yet. I'm not back yet.//

//How petty. It is time for you to remember your place in this world. The three principles of service we all adhere to-//

//Be humble. Be true. Be ruthless for the sake of salvation.//

//Well said indeed. Now go and prepare to face the Grand Masters. The Trinity knows you have come here, and the Elders may grant you the honour of an audience if you are found worthy.//

//Worthy?//

//In your cell, you will find flogger and cilice. You have access to the well. Go, undress, wash and prostrate yourself in order to purify your flesh and open your mind. Meditate until you are called.//

The memory of excruciating cold. Toes and fingers, nose and private parts going numb with cold. Water layered with ice, grey stone slabs shimmering with frost. Crawford shivered, his lips turned blue while his skin crawled with goosebumps. Thorns of steel drawing blood from his thigh, his throat, his brow while the lead-weighted leather of the flogger licked trails of fire and blood over his flesh...

Crawford pressed his lips together and blew a stream of smoke through his nostrils. //When-//

//When it is time. When you have shed the stench of the OUTSIDE.//

//I have to return.//

//When the time comes. If you are still found useful. If it is judged that you have proven yourself.//

//I am-//

//A servant. We all are servants, and the most exalted shall be the most humble. Pride is a flaw. You shall not let weakness overcome you.//

An Oracle, he had meant to say. Unique. One in a billion.

Ash was dripping onto his feet, but he did not notice, and he did not say it, he did not even think it anymore. He knew better now than to plead for his team, and carefully locked away any stray twinge of concern or fear. He blanked his mind because it would be wrenched open like a tin of sardines, his brains rummaged through until his eyeballs were about to burst with pain and his vision was a blur of blinding white floods of light.

He raised his hand and touched the chest pocket of his jacket. The shape of the disc pressed lightly against his palm, and he traced it lightly with his fingertips while finishing his smoke. No, it was better to travel without worrying, and he drew back the tendril of his mind he had sent flying ahead. He was prepared, he knew his business, and this time he hoped to have something those at HOME wanted badly enough to set him loose once more.

xxx

Next chapter: Cold Light of a Summer Morning


	38. Chapter 38 Cold Light Summer Morning

Hah! Glinwulf, thanks for picking up on that continuity slip XD I amended this now. That much for writing without beta.  
Cheers, LH.

xxx

**38. Cold Light of a Summer Morning**

//You are unworthy.//

"I am unworthy." Nagi was on his knees on the cold greasy concrete, his hands pressed against his temples. Swaying lightly, he murmured the words that filled his brain along with the cold, the white light, the reek of human waste that filled the small room.

//You are nothing.//

"I am nothing."

//The Trinity created you. The Light gave you life.//

"I was created..."

//A servant to the Truth and a soldier of Salvation.//

"I am nothing. I am a servant. I am blessed for Salvation will come to me..."

//The proof of true humility lies in our actions. It rests in our thoughts. It clarifies our minds.//

"Please..." A whisper, barely audible, escaping Nagi with a small breath.

//You have been thinking evil thoughts.//

"I have dirtied my mind. I have been thinking evil things."

//You yielded to Pride and Hubris.//

"I thought I could walk on my own. I have insulted the Light. I am lost and begging for guidance."

//Return to The Path, one step at a time. Pray for forgiveness. Pray for humility.//

"This humble servant prays to the Honourable Light. He prays that his words might be heard. He prays that his sins might be weighed and his mind relieved of its burden. He prays that the Honourable Light might fill his mind and illuminate The Path to him once more so he may walk towards Truth and Salvation..."

//Words are feeble. Demonstrate.//

A small sob wrenched from Nagi's throat, and his small hands curled into fists as he began to tear at his hair hard enough to pull out thick strands, and then he drew his hands down, his nails scouring bleeding tracks over his pale skin. Sweat was beading on his upper lip and between his shoulderblades in spite of the cold. He was trembling, shivers chasing over his skin and making the tiny hairs stand on end. Biting down on his lip to lock in the pained gasps that filled his mouth, he was panting in harsh little puffs through his nose.

//Demonstrate...//

Slowly, Nagi unfurled his scrawny frame and laid himself out, with his stomach on the concrete floor, blood dripping from his scratched flanks and neck, his legs spread wide and his arms stretched out, palms on the ground. His nose was pressing onto the floor, his lips were moving against filthy concrete. "Honourable Light, this servant left you." His words, slurred at first and hasty, began to gain clarity and strength as he went on. "He fled your HOME. He embraced the OUTSIDE. He is nothing but filth..."

//What does he want?//

Nagi opened his mouth and drew a shallow breath that tasted of oil and dirt. Staring at the grey ground, he whispered, "He pleads for penance. He begs to be made whole again. He prays..." A small pause, and then Nagi closed his eyes and said tonelessly, "...for The Light to take his mind."

xxx

Yohji found him like that, marred with congealed blood and stiff with cold, his belly and chest, his legs and arms streaked with broken welts. He set down the plastic container with rice he carried, along with a plastic bottle with water, and shoved the container towards Nagi with his foot. "Hey." Yohji nudged Nagi's shoulder. "Quit this crap. You gotta eat."

And then something hit him in the chest. A flash of darkness, followed by blazing light exploding in his head as his head hit something hard and cold with a sickening thud. Yohji tried to blink open his eyes while the pungent taste of blood filled his mouth and turned his howl into a choked gargle, but the white room around him began to spin and darken. As if through cotton wool, he heard Aya yell something about a gun. Yohji sagged against the wall behind him and slid down, his hands coming up to his temples, touching something warm and sticky that trailed down one side of his skull and caked his hair. Just washed it, it flashed through his mind, and he wanted to laugh, then wondered why Aya was pointing a gun at him, before he realised that Aya's glare was focused on something near him.

Aya blocked the door. In fighting stance, his chin jutting forward aggressively, his eyes flaring... a spark of panic deep down, quickly covered by a layer of frost. "Yohji, move your ass," he ordered. His voice had the ring of steel, Yohji thought dazedly, like the blade he used to-

"Yohji! Move the fuck out of here. Now." Aya pursed his lips, but he neither shifted nor blinked, as if he was trying to will his target to stay still.

xxx

In the kitchen, Yohji propped one elbow on the edge of the sink whilst pressing a soaking teatowel against the side of his head. Cold water ran down his neck and between his shoulderblades, trailing shimmering rivulets on his bare back. Aya, in his orange sweater with rolled-up sleeves, set a mug of coffee on the table. "You didn't see this coming?" He sounded incredulous and tired.

"Hmph."

"Yohji." Aya sat down, unthinkingly massaging his bandaged arms.

"I didn't, okay?" Yohji turned around and stared at Aya. "I didn't even see him move. One second, he was on the floor, and I thought he'd snuffed it overnight. The next thing I know is my head cracks against the wall and I'm out for the count. He shouldn't have that kinda... strength. Hell, look at him! He's just a kid, and I'm still not buying into this whole superpower crap. Why were you snooping after me anyway?"

Aya quirked a mirthless smirk. "A kid, like Ken and Omi. I had a hunch."

Yohji pushed out his lower lip. "C'mon..."

"Okay, if you really want me to answer this - I think you are losing it. I wanted... I was..." His voice faded, and he swallowed hard.

"Wow. That's a bit rich coming from you, innit?" Yohji snorted. "Where d'you get the gun?"

Aya gathered himself. "It's Omi's. I can't use the katana until my arms are better."

Yohji leaned over to turn off the tap, and then, in the small silence that settled between them, he shuffled across to pull out Ken's chair, next to Aya's place, and sat down. "Ayan..."

"Have your coffee now." Aya met Yohji's green eyes quietly. "You'll feel better afterwards."

"Aya." Yohji covered Aya's hand with his own. Aya let him, but his gaze drifted away to the mug of tea that stood before him on the bare table. Yohji drew him closer until they sat shoulder to shoulder and Yohji could touch his lips to Aya's hair. "You need to change those dressings." He rubbed his blood-stained fingertips lightly against the wool of Aya's sweater.

Aya heaved a suppressed sigh. "Yohji, do you realise-"

"I love you."

Yohji could feel Aya jolt and then freeze. The tap was dripping into the sink, hacking the silence into small eternities. Yohji's scarred fingers dug into the folds of the sweater, gathering them over Aya's shoulder into a tight bunch that filled his fist. "Won't you say anything?" he murmured hoarsely.

Another few heartbeats before Aya cleared his throat and turned his head, his lips brushing over Yohji's stubbly jaw. "I want you to stop this. I want you to give up and concentrate on your job instead."

Yohji met his mouth in a kiss that tasted of cigarettes and tenderness. "I can't," he said, all harshness gone. "You know I can't do that."

"And I can't work like this." Aya sagged a little more into Yohji's warmth.

Yohji drew a slow, deep breath. "Well... seems we have a problem."

"Yes, we do, down in the basement." Aya drew back and shook his head. "Look, Manx is chasing after her mission report, why don't you draft something so we can try and sort this mess? We'll talk later about... things."

A small smile curved Yohji's lips as he closed his eyes. "Aye, sir. Later. Why not. How's Ken?"

Aya shrugged. "Drugged up against the pain, but it could be worse. He managed to get to the bathroom, he ate rice and miso earlier, and he had some tea. The stitches look neat enough."

"Did you-"

"I told him we'll collect Omi tonight."

Yohji glanced up, meeting Aya's pale gaze. "We?"

Aya wrapped his arms around himself. "Do you... does this trouble you?"

Yohji leaned back and reached for his coffee and lit a cigarette. "No."

xxx

Next chapter: Journey


	39. Chapter 39 Journey

**Wow. Thank you to my regular readers for sending me such wonderful feedback - I will reply to each as usual. To those who sent feedback anonymously, thank you for letting me know that you are enjoying the story - and for pointing out errors! Cheers.**

xxx

**39. Journey**

//Visit the innermost of the Mind, through Purification you shall find the Truth..//

In spite of himself, Crawford drew up his shoulders a little when he heard the discreet bleep of an incoming message. The blinking of the cursor paused before the screen bloomed into dusky blue, and a small pop-up window announced that mail had arrived at his inbox.

//The only constant is Change, the eternal transmutation of one into another...//

He took another drag at his fag and absentmindedly brushed a few specks of ash off his shirt. Outside, morning was rising grey and muggy, woven through by the distant hum of the awakening city. A hesitant knock on the door made him shake his head and half-turn. "Come in already."

//...until Spirit and Form become one.//

The door opened, and Schuldig's haggard face appeared in the crack. He had bags under his eyes, and he shuffled into the room looking at once beat and defiant. Crawford fleetingly wondered how he did that, and then ran his hand through his hair and banned the thought. "What is it?"

"Can't sleep," came the cranky retort. "So what?"

//Mediocrity is your enemy. Wipe it out.//

Crawford nodded at the screen. "I have to leave earlier than planned. Are you mediocre, Schuldig?"

"Huh? Whatcha talking about?" Schuldig leaned against the wall by the door. He looked a mess in ratty jeans and a grubby black tee, his hair lank and greasy, his eyes watery and puffy. "You gonna tell them? I mean... all that shit that's going on?"

He lacked bounce, Crawford mused wryly as he squashed out his smoke in the too-full ashtray, he was not even fidgeting. Like a puppet with cut strings, crumpled into a heap on the floor. "I might. Pull yourself together. I can't deal with your crap now. I have to sort out flights-"

"Done." Schuldig shrugged and drew snot up his nose, then decided to wipe his face with the hem of his tee before staring up at Crawford again through a mess of bright copper. "The stuff's in a wallet on your bed. Passport, visa, return flights, train tickets, and-"

"I told you to book single flights." There was the faintest tinge of impatience in Crawford's tone.

"- tourist brochures." Schuldig sucked his lower lip between his teeth and let it pop out with a wet click. "I'm sooo sorry." He folded his arms. "Anyway, it's done now, and I packed your suitcase."

Crawford raised his hand to push up his glasses, remembered that he had taken them off during the night and put them onto the keyboard, and rubbed his temple instead. "I also told you I won't need anything. You know how it works back HOME."

A shudder ran through Schuldig's bony frame, but his stance remained stubborn. "Man, Brad, how're you gonna go through airport security with no luggage? You keen on cavity searches or what? You gotta have something to say like, hey guys, I'm actually harmless, your average Mr Nobody just going to faff about a bit in good ol' Europe..."

Crawford blinked. "I..."

Schuldig met his eyes, frosty blue boring into cool darkness. "Yeah. There's a file on your laptop case with a few business papers from the Embryo Stamm Zell Engineering und Testing AG." (1) He swallowed, his bony adam's apple jumping. "Neat." It was meant to sound boisterous and mocking, but it came out small and scratchy.

"Ah... yes." Crawford pressed firmly against his temple, a brief twinge of pain crossing his even features. "Of course."

Schuldig shifted and scratched his left ankle with the toes of his unwashed right foot. "I figured you'd go as business honcho 'cos you can't carry off Bermudas-"

"Stop babbling." Crawford's voice was tense.

Schuldig snapped his mouth shut and hugged himself a bit more firmly.

Crawford closed his eyes for a moment. //The vessels of Light have become the vessels of Life.// "I know, I know..."

"Know what?" Schuldig radiated nervy mistrust. "They're in your head, right?"

"Nobody is in my head. Listen now." Crawford sat down behind the desk and clicked open the message.

_"From: vorstandsbureau at ESZET . com  
__To: oracle at netmail . com  
The Board requests your attendance."_

There was no need for either signature or subject line.

//The Great Work is done.// Crawford grew pale as echoes of the past kept welling up in his mind, but he let them. Sometimes it was better to go with the flow...

Schuldig watched, his nails digging into his upper arms. "I'm listening." He sounded edgy but clear. Crawford read the single line once more, his lips moving to form the words without saying them. Schuldig pushed himself off the wall and crossed the room. He squatted in front of the desk and laid his arms across the cool, clean top. "I got you that thing. That shirt. Figured you'd wanna wear that when... Brad, it's stupid, you can wear something else until you get there."

"Somebody will be collecting me from the airport, there won't be time to change. There are worse things than a scratchy shirt. Where did you get it?"

"From a shrine, believe it or not, and I paid for it... uh, made a donation. Everybody else would have thought I'm a loon. That thing isn't just scratchy, it's hairy and a bitch on your skin in this weather."

Crawford snorted softly. "The Venerated Masters will appreciate a sign of submission."

"If only skindeep," Schuldig quipped. "It's ridiculous to get your hide blistered before-"

"I didn't ask your opinion on this. Rosenkreuz is ancient, ESZET is new. We have to bow to both, Mind and Flesh, you know that, so don't talk nonsense now."

"What with all their shit about finding the Vessel-"

"-that holds the Light Eternal... think about it. What have people been after since the dawn of humanity? Eternal Life. The Grail, the Soul, rebirth, resurrection, the Well of Life, Holy Water, the lifeblood, the essence of it all, in order to wash away sin and ailments, to become ageless and perfect... call it what you like, but they think they found it now, and it's not a dream, or food supplements, or plastic surgery. It's the real thing, or so I believe. ESZET have it, and they're using it. There's money in it and power we probably can't even begin to imagine just yet. Why do you think Kritiker sent their agents in? Did you know that Fujimiya's old man had given political support to Takatori in respect to certain lines of scientific exploration?"

"Do I wanna know?" Schuldig mumbled, his tone nervy and strumming with tension. "I thought Fuji's clan had this restaurant chain..."

"Perhaps you should open your eyes and take an interest. It's called a proactive approach to your work, and it might just save your ass. The chain is a front. The real business lies elsewhere, or why do you think the Fujimiyas were so well connected? The kind of money they had - that's not from making sushi. Old Fuji and Takatori senior had a deal - Fujimiya was a major shareholder of the bank that funded some of Takatori's research companies, and they were both directors of Takatori's conglomerate of pharmaceutical firms-"

"Why're you telling me now?"

There was a small pause, when Crawford suddenly remembered that he needed a smoke, only to find the packet was empty. Schuldig patted down his jeans, found a lighter and an almost full packet of cheap cigarettes in his backpocket, and tossed both to Crawford, who caught them casually, without even looking properly. He took his time to light up, and when he was done, he carefully placed the paper box and lighter onto his desk and lined them up until they were exactly parallel to the keyboard. Schuldig would have bet his nuts that he could have measured and found that Crawford had positioned the items with absolute precision.

Crawford sucked a mouthful of smoke deep into his lungs and then carried on talking as if he had not heard. "On Fujimiya's advice, some of the more controversial research was outsourced so they could keep a low profile. They knew the government's stance with regards to a certain kind of experiments, and they played the game. They fell out over business, not morals, when some busybody leaked information on the trials to the press. The public went wild, Fujimiya saw his political ambitions compromised." Crawford shrugged. "Perhaps he panicked. He most certainly was pressurised by his clan, his political allies who were in a hurry to distance themselves, and he lost his grip on the bank. Subsequently, they decided that it was a good idea to call in the loans and threaten to sue Takatori for breach of contract, violation of the credit agreements, and disgrace Fujimiya in public."

Schuldig writhed until he could reach one of Crawford's shirt buttons with his fingertips. "You didn't answer me. So that's-"

"I don't jump when you beckon. That's when we were called in. Now I need to know how they have progressed back HOME, and what they plan to do with us."

"Wow, you sound so educated," Schuldig sneered, screwing up his eyes to watch the little puffs of smoke that issued from Crawford's mouth with each word he spoke. "They're not exactly going to tell you, are they?"

Crawford let the cigarette dangle from a corner of his mouth as he reached for his glasses, pulled out a corner of his rumpled shirt, and began to polish the lenses. He barely slurred, and Schuldig wondered how he managed that, as he kept talking. "I AM educated, because - unlike you - I did my homework, and I can learn from my mistakes as well as from my adversaries. Who knows. There are ways and ways... how is your head?"

Cautiously, Schuldig inched a bit closer, his tee rucking up as his belly pressed against the smooth table, until he could slide his fingers under Crawford's shirt and over his stomach. "Fine, just dandy."

"I wouldn't mind if you could try to concentrate on the job at hand." Crawford folded the empty packet of cigarettes in half, set it neatly next to the full one, and clicked a few keys to close the computer down. "I need you to keep your mind to yourself. Once I'm gone, I'll have no nerve for your stuff. You will have to handle Farfarello by yourself. And Nagi - that's up to you now. I can't help you with this."

"But-"

"You lost him, you get him back. I trust you can do that."

Schuldig didn't catch him in time and suddenly found himself swept up, Crawford's fist twisting a thick handful of his hair and Crawford's mouth sucking the life out of him. Schuldig felt the hard edge of the table bang against his upper thighs, then his knees as Crawford dragged him close, and he scrabbled for hold, struggling against the swell of nausea that swept through him and made his head spin. His mind registered acute heat as ash was dripping down his back from Crawford's cigarette, but he did not care beyond wrapping his legs around Crawford's tall frame and let himself be slammed onto the desk.

"You need to behave," Crawford snarled quietly when Schuldig bent back and bared his throat, a loud groan pressing through his clenched jaws. "Whatever you do with that fucktoy of yours, you need to keep your brains together."

"What... ah... if..."

"No what ifs. He's never going to stay with you, and you're nothing without Schwarz."

"I mean... what-" Schuldig yelped when Crawford's large hand wedged into the front of his jeans and began to maul his groin.

"I know what you mean, and I'm telling you there are no 'what ifs' for us. You can't handle scenarios. I have to wipe the computer now. Go to my room, clear the bed, and wait. I won't be long.

xxx

Next chapter: Lines

**NOTE:  
**(1) **E**mbryo **S**tamm **Z**ell **E**ngineering und **T**esting AG (ESZET) - Embryo Stem Cell Engineering and Testing plc.

xxx


	40. Chapter 40 Lines

**40. Lines**

Omi lay on his back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. //Been there, done that... ah no, didn't have this...// He lightly clenched his fingers, tips smudging over the case of the disc that lay on his chest. Proof. Crawford had offered it, and he had not sounded cynical, or haughty, or even gleeful, and Omi was still taken aback by this total absence of anything remotely personal.

//Quite the business pal, Oracle... So how was that, Reiji isn't quite my father 'cos Kikuno made him a cuckold by getting it on with Shuichi. Great. Masafumi and Hirofumy are what, my brothers? Cousins? Bit of both, I guess. That girl I met... Ouka... that's all down the drain now, too, 'cos I can't hook up with my sister. Not even if she's just my half-sister. Thanks for the advice, Yotan, we really are no good with girls, are we... Ah yes, and Saijoh... hey, grampa, how could I forget - Tsukiyono Castle, really, how stupid can it get? Perhaps... perhaps I just didn't want to know.//

It did not even hurt too badly. No more than a numb chill in his chest, making his breathing a bit more laboured and his heartbeat a bit heavier than usual. Not a big deal, really. The proof was on the disk, Crawford had said, but Omi thought there really was no need to check it out, it would be a breeze to whisk through the references and verify the lot, Yohji was good at that sort of thing, and Crawford had no reason to lie. No reason to seize him and drag him here for something like that...

Omi turned onto his stomach and hugged the pillow. They had checked on him in the small hours and moved him into Schuldig's grubby, messy den that had a window barred with an iron grid. A bit like Yohji's cave, Omi had thought, except for the smell of sweaty clothes and cheap soap. It had hurt to think of Yohji again, but he felt too washed out to fight it.

Crawford had left the handcuffs on him but not bothered to fasten him to anything. Omi had found the bed smelly and tried to sleep on the floor in a corner of the room, but he had soon given up, tired beyond belief and caring. So now he was lying on Schuldig's rumpled, stained sheets with his nose in Schuldig's large, European-style pillow that smelled of unwashed hair and stale tobacco smoke.

//Funny that... how I want to go home, and they don't.//

From the park surrounding the mansion, birdsong filtered into the darkness along with the grey light of the summer morning. Omi shivered with emptiness even as thoughts kept drifting through his mind without resistance.

//Ouka. Nice name. Nice girl. School my ass. Yohji doesn't need to know everything, he's just too nosy sometimes. None of his business why I was hanging out by that boutique like some crossdressing slut. Ass with a price tag. Sometimes, Kenken's just too close to the truth...//

Omi mauled the pillow into a clump of foam flakes contained in a sweat-damp blue-checked cottton hull and stuffed it under his neck as he turned yet again, onto his side, drawing up his knees against his belly.

//Silly trying to catch the bastards out like that, but it was worth a shot, right? They like them young and expensive... and Reiji looked like her sugar daddy alright, footing the bill for all those designer rags she bought. How could I know she wasn't THAT kind of company...//

A small sound, somewhere between a moan and a sob, came through his nose because he was biting his lips in an attempt to lock it in.

//Perhaps I should laugh. It IS ridiculous. And if Aya finds out... no, not thinking of this now... yes, if Aya finds out they knew all along who did this to him and his sister... does he know what his old man was up to?//

Another shiver ran through Omi's thin form. With bound hands, he groped for the blanket that hung over the footend of the bed, and pulled it up to his shoulders, bunching it under his chin. It was muggy in Schuldig's room, but he felt cold to the core even as sweat began to sheen his skin, making it itchy.

//I want a bath. Or at least a shower... this stinks, and I have Schuldig all over my hide.// A wave of nausea shook him, and his stomach cramped with hunger. //Soon. Crawford promised. Why does nobody come to get me...// He let go of the blanket and felt for the disc until his nails clicked against the slim plastic box that lay hot and smooth against his belly.

//Aya. Yohji's always on about gut feeling... he has a point. Aya's been nothing but trouble on the team, but they made me keep him... rather neat, that one. At least he's under control as much as he can be - they have him by his nuts while he still thinks they're helping him care for his sister. Crawford's right, there's no point us carrying on beating the shit out of each other, and there's no way I can talk to Kritiker about this. To the guy who watched as his brother ran over Aya's sister after torching their home and killing his old man and his mother. I can't talk to Shuichi. To Persia. To my father.//

With the blanket still up to his collar bone, Omi rolled over onto his back again and let his arms fall onto his stomach, his handcuffs making a muffled clank on the shiny plastic box on his belly. Closing his eyes, he lay still, listening to his own breathing while counting his hearbeat.

//Shouldn't I feel like howling now? Funny that... gotta ask Yohji about this shit. Or perhaps Mr Prissy Prick... Aya should know. How To Feel Nothing, by Fuji Sensei, Expert on Making Yourself Miserable And Enjoying It. Twenty-four, twenty-five... why won't Yohji fuck me? It's not as if I'd break... thirty-one... I know my stuff, been there, done that... thirty-six... he can be such an asshole... thirty... no, fourty... why Schuldig and not me?... fourty-four... or Aya who treats him like shit... he really deserves better than... fuck, where was I?//

Omi tossed back the blanket, caught the slipping disc by reflex, and rummaged through the cluttered nightstand by the side of Schuldig's bed.

//That looks like Yohji's. Lube, rubbers - ew, a used one, what a pig - fags... now where's a lighter... ah.// Omi flopped back onto the bed and lit up, watching with half-closed eyes the smoke that curled from his nostrils. //Ridiculous, they even left me fire here, they must be so damn sure of themselves. I hate it.//

It was too hot in the room. He felt too exhausted to rouse himself enough to give room to real anger, or real fear. It was unhelpful to find his mind drift back to Yohji. Images of the blond doing things he refused to do with Omi whose fantasy was fired by the smells of Schuldig's den, the rumpled, uncomfortable sheets, by a night of strain that made the previous evening, the botched mission, the sounds of gunfire and shouting appear like echoes of a distant past. The odd numbness inside him made him cast about for something with which to fill it, to colour in the greyness that had covered everything else that had been there before.

//What? What was there before?//

Puzzled, Omi gazed after a particularly ornate curl of smoke. Down the corridor, a door clanged, and voices drifted through the hallway.

//I wonder whether Schuldig... I'm no damn kid anymore. Old enough for them to leave me in this crap here.//

He touched his middle and rubbed a bit. Eyes closing and mouth going slack as his body grew taut and his knees opened just enough. It did not take long, it was no more than a short burst of physical release, much like a pinprick on burning skin, and when he felt the stickyness in his pants, he wriggled in disgust.

There was barely time to sit up when he heard steps approach the door, and then he heard a hard rap and Schuldig's hoarse croak even as the door slammed open. "Hey, Bombay, gimme my fags back."

xxx

Next chapter: Currency


	41. Chapter 41 Currency I

**41. Currency I**

Waiting for his suitcase to emerge onto the luggage carousel designated to his plane at the airport, Crawford resisted the urge to tug his tie loose, or rub his temples against the headache he could feel throbbing just beneath a layer of numbness, or to glance over his shoulder to see...

//There is a Truth that lies hidden  
but not so that it cannot be discovered  
There is a Truth that is the Root of Life  
and belongs to those who Seek.//

They would have sent somebody to collect him. They always did, unfailingly, never letting any of their flock go astray.

Light was flooding through the steel and concrete framed glass walls of the hall, a building large enough to accommodate a small city, complete with food stalls, rolling walkways, mini buses and electric cars that buzzed through a noisy, milling crowd bursting with the colours of summer. It smelled of sweat, coffee that had brewed too long on the top of a machine, and sunscreen. Holiday season, he remembered. He had checked and memorised every detail of this trip. It might help planning whatever parameters could be foreseen. Perhaps it would help him react appropriately. Maybe save...

//There is a Truth that is Knowledge  
illuminated by the Light Eternal  
There is a Truth that is the Path that leads  
Home those who wish to See.//

He shook the thought off. //Not now.//

He was cold in spite of the stifling heat that even here, in the heart of Europe, made the air thick and the airconditioning all but useless. Folding his hands before him, he stared at the non-smoking sign. Stark red, black and white, it was placed strategically over the mouth of the luggage conveyor that kept spewing suitcases, bags, golf caddies, rucksacks, skateboards... Crawford blinked, trying to imagine Nagi on one of those. He failed.

//There is a Truth that is Order  
and the Certainty of Creation  
There is a Truth that is Revelation  
to those whose Fate is Finding.//

"Mr Crawford."

A smooth voice, plain and almost without inflection, caught him by surprise after all. He barely managed to suppress a shudder as he turned to face a young man, perfectly dressed in a grey business suit. He stood almost as tall as Crawford although his frame was narrower. Neatly cut mousy brown hair framed his regular face; his eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark shades, his smile impeccable and frozen.

"Yes."

"I hope you had a good journey." The young man reached for Crawford's suitcase that just then rolled towards them on the carousel. Crawford studied his motions - smooth, controlled, with a whipcord elasticity that betrayed power beneath the nondescript shell.

"I did, thank you." Crawford's tone was bland although the scratchy vest was driving him to distraction, and he knew that, by the time they would arrive at their destination, his skin would be covered in swollen red patches and small blisters filled with water.

The young man straightened and held the suitcase out to him. "You may wish to carry this yourself?"

"I don't care. Take it if you like, leave it if you don't." Crawford, making no move to get his suitcase back, was not surprised to see a woman weave her way through the bustle of tourists and business travellers, aiming straight for him and the young man. "Our driver?"

She too wore grey - a sensible, skirted business ensemble with medium-heel black court shoes - and in all but shape could have been the twin of the man. Her lips were unpainted, her nails short and plain. Not a single piece of jewellery adorned her.

"Mr Crawford." She stretched out her hand.

He gazed at the black shades that turned her face into an expressionless mask, and ignored the offered hand. "I know my name. Where did you park?"

"I am Jonas," the young man cut in, a bit quicker than necessary, "from Z Class. This is Rada from S Class. We have been asked to guide you HOME."

"You haven't answered my question." Crawford watched her hand fall away. They stood to either side of him, the man with his suitcase and the woman that looked like his sister, and Crawford could see them exchange a glance, unreadable beyond the shield of their shades.

"We will guide you," the man repeated politely, starting towards the main exit of the arrivals lounge.

Crawford did not waste his energy on trying to get anything else out of them. Acutely aware of the presence of the woman who followed him smartly, like a good personal assistant would follow her boss, he allowed himself a tiny smirk as he watched his suitcase swing from the hand of the man. //Yes, there is the Path. And there are ways and ways...//

xxx

Omi curled up against the wall at the headend of the bed and kicked back the blanket. Schuldig's lanky shape was backlit by the jaundiced glow of light at the end of the corridor, his featured washed out and vague in the grey dawn that filtered through the dirty window panes.

Schuldig stared at him. "My smokes. I want them back."

"Fuck off," Omi said, glad that his voice sounded firm.

"Tut." Schuldig shook his head. "Just be a good lil' boy and toss the the stupid fags, unless-"

Omi did as asked. Unthinkingly. "And now, what?" he snapped.

"Now..." Schuldig rolled his eyes and smacked his lips. "Hmmm... I'm gonna go and talk to my mad friend... I have to get him out of his cell and walk him in the park... oh..." Schuldig slapped his brow with the packet of cigarettes. "Of course, I'll need to explain to him why he cannot slice bits off you yet." A nonchalant shrug. "I just hope he's in a listening mood."

"You need me," Omi pointed out coolly, pressing the disc against his stomach and wishing fervently to be rid of the handcuffs.

"Ah, guess what." Schuldig lit up and held the lighter up so that the flame made his pale eyes glitter like ice. "I know that. You know that. But he... he might just forget."

"Man, can't you find something new to try and impress?"

"If it ain't broken, why fix it?"

In spite of himself, Omi shivered as he met Schuldig's gaze. //Like a dead fish... dead, they all look like that. Dead men walking. Zombies.//

Schuldig ran his tongue over his thin lips as he gave Omi a languid all-over. "You should wear drag more often."

Omi felt a lump swell in his throat and a wave of heat burn its way through his skin.

Schuldig's smirk was weaker this time and colder. "You look cute that way. Much younger. In fact, you didn't look legal. He liked what he saw... too bad that girl was with him, right? Bad luck that. Really, _really_ bad luck. I wouldn't have minded watching."

"Fuck you," Omi managed, but cursed himself for his tone had lost its smoothness and dropped to a scratchy whisper.

Schuldig leaned against the doorframe, folded into a tight crouch and crept closer, his eyes never leaving Omi's. "Oooh... no! Not you, you won't... but perhaps we could rearrange that little date you were after. It would be fun, wouldn't it?"

Omi pressed his lips together in a tight line. "I wouldn't have gone there, asshole. I'm not you, I got brains." He sounded shaken, but not afraid. "And if you don't back off-" He yanked his knee up the moment Schuldig pounced.

xxx

"How is it going?" Aya laid his hand lightly onto Yohji's bare shoulder. Yohji wore nothing but briefs and a black vest that showed off his muscular shoulders and strong, smooth neck, but his hair was a tangled mess, and he slouched, shrouded by tobacco smoke, in front of Omi's computer in the basement of the house. The vague light of the screen drew all colour from his face, bathing it in blueish pallor as he squinted at what he had typed.

"It's not... not really." Yohji let his head loll forward for a moment, before drawing himself up again and glancing up at Aya. "Your arms?"

Aya quirked a mirthless grin. "I'll live. I think Ken's past the post, too. There, if you change this bit..." He leaned over Yohji's shoulder, narrowing his eyes as he read, his lips moving without sound, and then dictating quietly. "..._to the conclusion that the investigation has to continue on a deeper level. To this purpose_..."

"..._it was found necessary to immediately carry out some additional research with the aim of recovering the missing files,_ " Yohji murmured while his fingers ran over the keyboard. "_An additional report will be filed as soon as this has been completed. Attached the retrieved files, as requested. Sign-off, Bombay._" He raised his hand, finger hovering over mouse, ready to click on the Encrypt-and-Send command at the side of the screen. "Cheers, Ayan."

Aya watched him - face haggard and stubbly, smoke curling from nose and lips because Yohji had not stopped eating cigarettes since sitting down to draft the report Manx wanted - and laid his hand over Yohji's long, hard fingers. _Click_.

They watched the message dissolve into splinters of colour, and then a garish snot-green baloon bloomed in the middle of the screen, growing until green filled every corner. It popped with a loud plop that made Yohji jump. A very obvious groan of release came from the speakers, and then a splatter of creamy white splashed against the screen before it went black and quiet.

"Jesus," said Yohji, a reddish sheen on his cheeks. "He really shouldn't..." He trailed off, shaking his head even as he leaned back in the tatty blue office chair with old coffee stains and threadbare armrests.

"That's what I keep saying, but you won't listen to me." Letting go of Yohji's hand, Aya leaned against the edge of the desk. "Yohji, we need to do some shopping. There's no miso in the house, and we haven't much rice left. I wonder... would you be able to open the shop? I could go and buy some food."

Yohji heaved himself up. He met Aya's tired eyes for a brief, silent gaze, and then gave him a quick smile and a hug that was too fast for Aya to fend it off. "Nah, Ayan, you go to bed, and I'll sort out the rest."

"Ah, of course, as you do... how is your head?"

Yohji pressed the large bruise at the back of his skull and hissed through his teeth. "Well, I see the universe pass in front of my eyes, complete with red fog and all that shit, but... no, look, I'm okay. I'll run the morning shift and put out a sign for the afternoon, 'kay?"

Another silence, then Aya said, in a very small voice, "I want... I still want to trust you."

Yohji gaped, then swallowed hard. "Okay." The smile had suddenly gone, along with the set-up cockiness. "Okay. Then do, Ayan. If only 'cos there's no choice right now, you hear me?"

Aya stared back at him. "I... I feel better when you're like this."

"Like what?"

"This. When I can see who you really are." He pushed himself away from the table and left, quietly climbing the stairs. Only when the door slid open at the top landing, did Yohji bury his face in his hands.

xxx

Next chapter: Currency II


	42. Chapter 42 Currency II

Hallo to all of you who are still reading and who sent me such lovely reviews. I have not yet answered all of them, but I will even if it takes a long time. I managed another four chapters and hope you'll enjoy.

xxx

**42. Currency II**

Crawford watched as they signed him in at the gatehouse at the edge of the campus, a wide square yard, paved with concrete slabs and surrounded by non-descript, multi-storey buildings of steel and mirrored glass. The sun was beating down and reflected from the gleaming facades, the heat simmering in waves over the neatly swept ground. There was nothing to breatk the stark monotony of grey stone and glaring light. Small groups of students, all in grey uniform, moved about in the same calm, purposeful manner his escorts displayed, none of them paying any attention to him.

It was all disconcertingly normal.

The campus had always reminded him of a cloister with its regular layout, its dormitory halls and protected walkways, although they were covered with mirrored glass mounted on steel girders, and there was no church but a large conference building that contained several lecture theatres, laboratories and a library housed in a soaring tower of glass and concrete. With the exception of the tower, the whole compound was low-key, unassumingly modern - and hiding the many storeys that lay underground. There were other, subtle signs that this was more than a corporate university, Crawford thought, but one had to look closely, or know what to watch out for - the guards that patrolled the walkways in pairs, their uniforms barely different from the students' plain grey suits, their guns concealed, their badges discreetly fixed to their belts. The back of the library tower, facing away from the yard, was studded with powerful satellite dishes and radio receptors, and its front sported clusters of floodlights.

His minders guided him to one of the dormitories. Their steps echoed faintly on the whitewashed gallery, open towards the yard, that breathed the coolness of concrete against the thick heat of summer. It was lined with small doors that could be locked from the outside or from within with coded keypads, and they opened one of them and beckoned him to enter.

A tiny cell, with a cot on one side, a sloping concrete floor with a drain at the far end, and a stainless steel sink in a corner. It was no more and no less than he had expected.

"Is there anything you need, Mr Crawford?"

Crawford turned and met the steady gaze of the young man and the woman who stood in the door, and a wave of dizziness washed over him as, for a heartbeat, he felt as if he was looking at a double image, a picture out of focus that sucked him in.

He drew a quick, deep breath. "I miss the welcome pack."

The man did not bat an eyelid. "You are not required to-"

"Bring it to me," Crawford cut in, with a mixture of irritation and tiredness, "and then leave me alone. I know the drill."

xxx

Once the door closed, the room was dark save for a strip of light that fell through a slit in eye-height.

He had been waiting, on his knees in the tiny cell that would be his home until it was decided what would happen to him. It was no more than a kennel, its concrete floor chilly in spite of the brooding summer outside, and he felt oddly relieved. His back was bleeding from lashes with the birch and hazel rods that Jonas had brought, along with a white towel and a enamelled bowl with cold, salty water that now was stained pink.

He had not tried to think, or to avoid thinking. Letting his mind flow helped dissipate thought until he felt empty and blank, as white as the walls of the cell. A shaft of hot, golden sunlight painted the progress of time onto the floor of the cell.

Within, it was cold.

He had fallen asleep at last, still on his knees, his head lolling to his chest. His posture barely relaxed, with his hands loosely resting on his thighs, the blood coagulating into rust coloured scabs on his torn skin as it cooled.

His young minders came to wake him when the ray of light had faded into burnished copper. They brought him a bathing robe, a medical gown and fresh towels. He listened to the silence in his mind, almost in awe at how effortless it spread into the furthest recesses of his consciousness. There were neither whispers nor struggles, and he felt almost sluggish with peace.

It did not matter that the doctor had half a dozen assistants that all bore the same cool, curious expression as if watching a lab rat while watching how a full physical exam should be performed, complete with running commentary, demonstration of particular points of note, and the odd prod and poke when one of them was allowed to take over. It was a calculated step, Crawford knew, for he would face most of those people at his debriefing.

It was no effort to blank his mind. He was a piece of kit - perhaps a bit faulty, a tad too independent, but still valuable while they tried to sound out just how much of his own will was left, carefully concealed and wrapped into layers of obedience, submission and diligence.

When he was released into the bleak silence of his cell, they had fitted him with a band around his head that held tiny transmitters to monitor his mind, his dreams and his breathing. No one would be allowed back into the innermost of HOME without a clean bill of health - and that included thinking the right things.

Wrapping his arms about himself, Crawford lay down on the cot and closed his eyes. He let the silence of the room fill him until everything around him faded away - the throbbing pain of his ravaged back, the flashes of fear that kept jabbing at his composure, the temptation to speculate what would happen to him.

The last thing he noticed was a sense of suprise as he felt sleep coming to him, easy and absolute.

xxx

Next chapter: A Sense of Loneliness

xxx


	43. Chapter 43 A Sense of Loneliness

**43. A Sense of Loneliness**

Schuldig snarled, Omi sunk his teeth into the firehead's shoulder, close to his neck, and locked his jaw. Schuldig gasped in painful surprise, one hand down to cup his groin against Omi's kick, the other busy trying to force those sharp teeth away from bleeding flesh. For a few heartbeats, they scuffled violently, Schuldig wheezing with pain, Omi too afraid to feel fear, or anything at all. It was fast and nasty, and when they rolled over the edge of the bed and fell to the floor with a hard thump, Schuldig managed to get up his hands and dig his thumbs into the joints of Omi's jaw to pry it open.

He yanked himself free and pushed Omi down even as he jumped to his feet and backed off. Omi curled up and scrambled back until his shoulders hit the bedside cabinet and he could drag himself up against the metal frame of the bed. He held his cuffed fists before him, glaring at Schuldig with wild eyes, his hair a mess, his lips and chin smeared with blood.

They both were panting, staring daggers at one another.

Schuldig shook with a silent chuckle. "You really think-"

"No!" Omi cut off Schuldig's breathless sneer. "I don't! But you won't beat me up for fun either! I don't like bullies. Your dick bruised now? Can't fuck Bali then, can you?"

"You little shit," Schuldig bit out, his tone chilling.

Omi tightened his stance - chin jutting forward, shoulders pulled up tight, feet planted wide and firmly on the floor. He managed a smirk and a disgusted snivel. "Look who's talking. Now why don't you get out of here and impress someone who cares?"

A small, nervy pause, then Schuldig drew himself up and let his head thud back against the doorframe. "Okay... okay, boyo... I might do just that." The small smile that thinned his lips did not match the blue frost in his eyes as he smoothed his splayed hands down his chest and stomach. "Ouka, yes? That's her name. Nice name. Cherry blossoms... Bali doesn't like cherry blossoms, does he?"

Omi swallowed and nervously licked Schuldig's blood off his lip before realising what it was. His cheeks bulged out as a wave of nausea crashed through him. He spat out, scrubbed at his mouth with his bare arm, struggling against the urge to vomit onto Schuldig's floor.

Schuldig watched, ignoring the trails of blood that soaked into his tatty tee. "Ah... _my friend_ on the other hand likes flowers. I like them too. Silky. Sweet. Scented. Soft. So very..." He reached for the door handle. "...very..." His eyelashes drooped, his eyes misting over as his lips parted some more, the perfect impression of an _onnagata_. (1) "...soft..." Barely above his breath, the last word drifted into the dusky room.

"I got nothing to do with her," Omi said, trying not to shake with a sudden wash of exhaustion. "I was after... you know what I was after."

Schuldig's shape seemed to fade like his voice. "Oh, I know alright. It was funny... really, just funny. People look so... dumb when they fall in love. Even you, in your little school dress, all pretty with ribbons and white socks. So prim." He gave a small chuckle.

"I'm _not_ in love," Omi retorted, surprised that he should sound breathless but calm.

There was a quiet little sneer, then the door thudded shut, the lock clacked, and he was alone again.

//What a nightmare. I hope his nuts are bruised.// Omi dropped onto the bed and closed his eyes. //And I'm so tired... when was that Maths exam? Tomorrow? Nah, tomorrow is today... I'm gonna fail that one then. This bed stinks, and I want Yohji to-//

Omi shook his head, matted strands of blond sliding over his brow.

//Nah. Not again. I couldn't even do anything now...//

xxx

Outside the day was turning to dusk.

Yohji sat on the windowsill of his den, the window open so he could smoke without stinking out the house, and Aya leaned against the wall by the door. Ken, put out by painkillers and antibiotics, had slipped back into a heavy, sweat-soaked sleep.

"Sometimes I just want to go home," said Aya, watching Yohji's silhouette, dark against the shimmer of the city. The day had left him with a heavy sensation of surrealism, a detachment as if he was watching a film, people acting out the strangest scenes, and none of it had anything to do with him. Exhausted from the loss of blood, the pain in his arms that was throbbing even through the veil of morphin-induced numbness that suffused him, and tired beyond caring, he found it tempting to give in...

It was beginning to rain.

"Home?" Yohji half-turned, his profile outlined in the ebb and flow of light that was like the breathing of the city. "THEY are terrified of HOME."

"And you?"

"I'm at home where you are."

Aya snorted softly. "Are you terrified, of me?"

"Are you?"

There was a long silence, deepened by the drizzle of rain, cooling the air that smelled of damp tarmac. Aya folded his arms over his chest. "Sometimes."

Yohji gave a dry laugh, almost a bark as he threw out his arms and tilted back his head. "Wow. Way to go, Ayan."

"You don't understand," Aya said quietly.

"I do." Yohji jumped up and stared at him, his eyes luminous even then, his glare accusing, his mouth set in a bitter twist. "I get it alright, Ayan, you bottle everything up inside and hey presto, things that bother you don't exist anymore."

Aya made a step towards him. Yohji snapped his mouth shut and let his arms dangle by his sides, his easy posture betraying nothing of the tension beneath. His fighting stance.

Aya paused. "I lock things up, yes." He picked his words slowly while looking at Yohji. Watching perhaps for the chance to make another step or two, to get closer. Close. Until they would melt into one another... "I do that because I've seen what happens if I let go. It's messy, and..."

Yohji slightly cocked his head. "And what? Cat got your tongue, Ayan?"

Aya bit his lip. "I thought about what you asked me to do... so I just need to say it? Three words?"

"Yes, Ayan."

"Three words, and you'll stop slutting around and getting drunk and high?"

"I will. Promise."

"So I say what you want to hear, and you'll change?"

"Yes but... Ayan, would you mean it?"

"And you, would you mean it?"

"Ayan-"

"Would it make us happy? I mean, happy for the rest of our lives? Together?"

"I love you." I sounded accusing the way Yohji thrust the words at Aya.

Aya stared at him, and his gaze was not friendly. "You're changing the goal posts. You're the one who won't commit. How can I trust you? Everytime I do, you flit off. You... you waste people. Pick up, play for a while and toss when you're bored of them. Like Schuldig. You're terrified of being dumped, so you run."

Yohji swallowed hard and ran his hand through his hair. Smoke curled from his nostrils and parted lips, and his gaze slipped before Aya could snag it.

Aya stabbed into the sudden stillness between them. "It's not working. You call me names when I'm trying to help you. You won't talk to me; you never did, not properly. You want to fuck instead and go on about your conquests." He shook his head. "How could I ever be sure you'd not make me look like a fool when I'm going out with you? I tried to open up to you, but it doesn't feel good. It was predictable, really, so..." He made a vague gesture. "There are people who need me. My sister... she loved me. Perhaps she still does. You neither need nor love, Yohji, not really. I can't afford being like that, getting hurt because you're either too thick to get it, or you like playing this kind of game."

Yohji swallowed hard. "I didn't realise..."

Aya gave him a half-smile. "My point, Yohji." He drew a slow breath. "You'll be fine soon enough. The world's full of drink and fucktoys. How are we for time?"

Yohji blinked. "You trying to close on me, Ayan?"

"I feel better like that." Aya nodded at the small pile of clothes that lay on Yohji's unmade futon. "I think we'll need to go soon. The boy will need some rags."

xxx

Next chapter: Home

xxx

**Notes:**  
(1) onnagata - male impersonator of female characters in Kabuki theatre


	44. Chapter 44 Home

**44. Home**

The official debriefing took place in a large room without windows. Lit softly by elegant, matte white globes that marked each seat, a u-shaped table stretched from the door to the opposite end, and when Crawford stepped from between his minders into the open space in the middle, he sensed the presence of others, shadows within the darkness beyond the golden blotches of light.

Only the three figures seated at the narrow end of the table were bathed in a pale glow that seemed to suffuse their white gowns and surround their silver hair with halos. The woman sat in the centre, flanked by two men, their faces aged yet smooth and unperturbed. They regarded him as one, their eyes dark and cool, betraying nothing for him to hold on to.

Crawford, wearing one of the uniform grey suits that marked him out as belonging to HOME, paused between the two prongs of the table. At each place, a face emerged from the murky darkness, disembodied and vague, without expression as they gazed at him.

The old woman barely inclined her head. "The Light greets you, Mr Crawford."

Crawford knelt, placed his hands on the floor and bowed his head deeply, touching his brow to the floor. "May The Light expand the mind of this servant. May it fill him with Understanding. May it show this servant the Path to the Truth."

"You may rise."

Crawford stood and met the woman's eyes, pools of darkness as bottomless as Night. Silence filled the room. He could hear his own heartbeat, faster than he would have liked, and his palms were damp with cold sweat as he linked his hands over his middle.

"The Trinity called you in search of evidence," one of the two old men flanking her began, his voice measured and distant.

"For it has been brought to the attention of the Trinity that things are not as they should be," the other resumed calmly.

Crawford felt his mouth go dry as he felt the threefold gaze hold him captive. "This servant will do all he can," he said, his voice flat and controlled, "to answer the Trinity."

"Then," the woman said calmly, "let us begin."

xxx

The interrogation was long and tiresome, but at the end, when the he settled back onto the cot in his cell and closed his eyes, Crawford dared to think again. They had probed his mind and he had done all he could to convince them of his devotion. There would be another interview, more private than the official session, before the Trinity would clear him, enabling him to meet the Board to discuss his business needs.

//Body, heart and mind, that's how it goes, all or nothing, failing one means the rest won't pass either and we end up on the scrapheap. But who says it all has come together in one? One unit, four bodies... would they consider?//

It was an unsettling thought.

//No room for this. Doubts are poison.//

He stared up at the ceiling. At last, he got up and groped for the bunch of birch and hazel rods that lay on the floor. The first lash made him hiss in his breath and squeeze his eyes shut. The second brought out a sharp gasp, and with the third everything beyond the physical agony of bleeding flesh melted away, leaving his mind blank and pure and free of doubt.

xxx

Next chapter: Dying Leaves


	45. Chapter 45 Dying Leaves

**45. Dying Leaves**

"Things have changed since you left, Mr Crawford." The silver-haired woman turned to regard him with her expressionless gaze. "This is our newest facility, but you will have heard of it, won't you.

"Learning without teaching," Crawford said calmly, as if reciting a textbook passage, "by furthering long-known methods such as hypnosis, subliminal messaging by sound and vision, reflexive memory training, neurolinguistic programming, free of the restraints of public concern and moralistic scrutiny..."

A small, frosty smile touched the woman's lips. "The hysteria of the lay public is a bothersome brake to science. Without such obstacles, we made enormous progress and achieved exceptional results. How about you, Mr Crawford? We had reports that your team has met with difficulties."

"Nothing I can't handle."

"It is a waste of your energy and therefore of expensive resources to sort out entirely avoidable messes. As a **H**aupt **O**rganisations **M**odell **E**inheit we are the most advanced of all units in ESZET. You know that we have standards to uphold. Our job is to develop useful prototypes, and you are well aware that we will not suffer slipups." **(1)**

Crawford shook his head. "I am an antiquated model. I enjoy it. It keeps me motivated."

"We prefer smooth solutions, Mr Crawford, and the Trinity decided that, in order to obtain full clearance, you should undergo another test to see whether you can still provide them." She touched a button on the collar of her white suit jacket, and one of the pale grey doors that lined the brightly lit corridor slid open, revealing a white room. It was evenly lit and silent., empty save for a desk and a chair. On the desk stood a glass with water, alongside a pad of faint ruled paper and a pencil.

The woman motioned him to sit down. "Your test, Mr Crawford, will be on a single subject. You have two hours to write an essay."

Crawford picked up the paper and read.

//Friendship. Consider the term. Provide a definition, along with an explanation. Relate to yourself.//

Crawford, incredulous, looked up, not quite sure whether this was one of their games. "I..."

The woman raised her hand to the button on her collar. "Questions are not allowed. I will leave you. Your time starts now, Mr Crawford."

xxx

Crawford sat back and read over the text that, in his neat, firm handwriting, covered the paper.

"Friendship. Something that can be attained only in exceptional cirucmstances. Human nature idealises. Animal nature is utilitarian, bonds created purely for the benefit of the species. In all, the idea of friendship, like all other ideals, is more akin to a dream, walking on the rainbow, or never-ending love. Commonly, it is confused with short-lived utilitarian bonds created to further short or medium term goals, or forged by the pressure of necessities. It resides in close vicinity to hope, another idealistic, humanistic concept. Animals do not know hope because they do not create or maintain ideas..."

//We don't judge animals if we are sensible. So why judge people? Good requires evil, else how would we measure either? What is the opposite of friendship?//

He took off his glasses. //Not enmity. Carelessness. That's more like it. Why do I feel something... some familiarity with this Jonas? It shouldn't be like this, as if there was a leak in my mind. Is this how Schuldig feels, all the time?//

Crawford nearly jumped when the door hissed open and Jonas stepped in.

//I didn't sense him.//

He was too shocked to speak.

Jonas gave him a blank gaze. "The Professor wants to see you. I am to escort you to the library, Mr Crawford. You may leave your papers here, they will be collected."

xxx

He had no time for the beautiful view from the glasstower. A spiral staircase wound itself around the core of the structure, a stainless steel construction with countless small doors, neatly marked in the top right corner with shimmering red letters and numbers. The staircase opened onto a set of four platforms at various levels of the central column, and the whole set, entirely made of glass, moved up and down the column like a giant elevator.

The silver-haired woman, clad in a white gown over a pale grey suit, was waiting for him at the top platform. The glass was darkened, the room still and cool, lit only by the soft glow of the labels on the column.

Crawford bent his head. "Professor."

"Spare us the formalities."

He glanced up. The woman held out her hand towards the column. "You know what this is?" From one of the small stainless steel drawers with a numbered label above the handle emerged a holographic crystal, spun through by a golden spiderweb, quivering spots of light flashing and running, merging or fading.

He felt a chill run down his spine. "No."

She smiled, but her eyes remained without expression. "This is you, Mr Crawford. And do you see that young man over there - Jonas? He is you. He shares much of your genome, along with your particular abilities. In a word, he is your son in all but name, just... easier to handle. An improved model. His brainscans reveal the same high-order neural connections you have, along with a much extended period of mental sustainability. In a word, he won't crack. His metabolism has been skewed to make his brain resilient to sleep deprivation or stress to the point of total and final failure of all physical functions. All emotive responses, redundant as they are, have been removed, freeing up considerable resources of energy."

She paused, watching him.

He stared at the crystal. //Space. Space to scrape for an answer, or to hang myself.//

"Why should we keep you, Mr Crawford?"

He slid his tongue over his dry lips. "Because you still need me. Your... product isn't quite what you want. I am still better than that." He nodded towards Jonas.

The woman's smile stayed in place. "You summed it up. We haven't quite finished studying you, Mr Crawford, and to be frank, he is not a perfect specimen."

"Why is that?"

"He is fertile, Mr Crawford. This is bad for our business. We have filed for patent, but our product multiplying itself would defeat the purpose. He will have to go. That will be your job. On your way out, you may pick up the medical supplies for you and your team."

xxx

**(1)** **H**aupt **O**rganisations **M**odell **E**inheit HOME Main Organisation Model Unit

Next chapter: Emptiness


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